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THE 


ETHICS  OF  THE    DUST' 


LITTLE    HOUSEWIVES 

ON 

The  Elements  of  Crystallization. 


JOHN  RUSKIN,  LL.D., 

Honorary    Student   of    Christ  Church,    and    Sladk 
Professor  of  Fine  Atr, 


CHICAGO 
DONOHUE,  HENNEBERRY  &  C^ 

407  Dearborn  Street 


\...' 

4^.. 


PERSON/E. 


Old  Lecturer  (of  incalculable  age). 
Frorrie, 

on  astronomical  evidence  presumed  to  be  aged    9 

Isabel, "11 

May, "II 

Lily, "12 

Kathleen, "     H 

LuciLLA, "15 

Violet, "16 

Dora,  (who  has  the  keys  and  is  housekeeper),  "      17 

Egypt  (so  called  from  her  dark  eyes),      .        .  **      17 
Jessie  (who  somehow  always  makes  the  room 

look  brighter  when  she  is  in  it),      .        .  "      18 
Mary  (of  whom  everybody,  including  the  Old 

Lecturer,  is  in  great  awe),       •        •        .  "     20 


83625 


CONTENTS. 


XECTURE.  PAGF- 

I.  The  Valley  of  Diamonds 9- 

II.  The  Pyramid  Builders 27 

III.  The  Crystal  Life 45, 

IV.  The  Crystal  Orders 65, 

V.  Crystal  Virtues Sy 

VI.  Crystal  Quarrels 109 

VII.  Home  Virtues 133, 

VIII.  Crystal  Caprice i6l 

IX.  Crystal  Sorrows 183- 

X.  The  Crystal  Rest 207 

Notes 23^ 


THE  ETHICS  OF  THE  DUST. 


LECTURE  I. 

THE  VA  LLE  Y  OF  DIA  MONDS. 

A  very  idle  ialky  by  the  dining-room  fire^  after  raisin* 
and-almond  time. 

Old  Lecturer  ;  Florrie,  Isabel,  May,  Lily,  and 
Sibyl. 

Old  Lecturer  (L.).  Come  here,  Isabel, 
and  tell  me  what  the  make-believe  was,  this 
afternoon. 

Isabel  {arranging  herself  very  primly  on 
the  foot-stool).  Such  a  dreadful  one  !  Florrie 
and  I  were  lost  in  the  Valley  of  Diamonds. 

L.  What  !  Sindbad's,  which  nobody  could 
get  out  of } 

Isabel.  Yes ;  but  Florrie  and  I  got  out 
of  it. 

L.  So  I  see.  At  least,  I  see  you  did ;  but 
are  you  sure  Florrie  did } 

Isabel.   Quite  sure. 

Florrie  (^putting  her  head  round  fr 


10  Zbc  lBmc6  ot  the  ]S>\X6U 

hind  L. 's  sofa'Cushion),  Quite  sure.  (Dis-- 
appears  again.) 

L.  I  think  I  could  be  made  to  feel  surer 
about  it. 

(Florrie  reappears,  gives  L.  a  kiss,  and 
ag^in  exit. ) 

L.  I  suppose  it  s  all  right ;  but  how  did 
you  manage  it? 

Isabel.  Well,  you  know,  the  eagle  that 
took  up  Sindbad  was  very  large — very,  very 
large — the  largest  of  all  the  eagles. 

L.    How  large  were  the  others  ? 

Isabel.  I  don't  quite  know — they  were  sa 
far  off.  But  this  one  was,  oh,  so  big !  and 
it  had  great  wings,  as  wide  as — twice  over 
the  ceiling.  So,  when  it  was  picking  up 
Sindbad,  Florrie  and  I  thought  it  wouldn't 
know  if  we  got  on  its  back  too  :  so  I  got  up 
first,  and  then  I  pulled  up  Florrie,  and  we  put 
our  arms  round  its  neck,  and  away  it  flew. 

L.  But  why  did  you  want  to  get  out  of  the 
valley }  and  why  haven't  you  brought  me 
some  diamonds.'* 

Isabel.  It  was  because  of  the  serpents.  I 
couldn't  pick  up  even  the  least  little  bit  of  a 
diamond,  I  was  so  frightened. 

L.  You  should  not  have  minded  the  ser- 
pents. 

Isabel.  Oh,  but  suppose  that  they  had 
minded  me .? 

L.  We  all  of  us  mind  you  a  little  too 
much,  Isabel,  I'm  afraid. 

''SABEL.   No— no — no,  indeed. 


Zbc  Dalles  of  Diamonds,  ir 

L.  I  tell  you  what,  Isabel — I  don't  believe 
either  Sindbad,  or  Florrie,  or  you,  ever  were 
in  the  Valley  of  Diamonds. 

Isabel.  You  naughty  !  when  I  tell  you  we 
were  ! 

L.  Because  you  say  you  were  frightened 
at  the  serpents. 

Isabel.   And  wouldn't  you  have  been  ? 

L.  Not  at  those  serpents.  Nobody  wha 
really  goes  into  the  valley  is  ever  frightened 
at  them — they  are  so  beautiful. 

Isabel  {sudde7ily  serious).  But  there's  no- 
real  Valley  of  Diamonds,  is  there  } 

L.   Yes,  Isabel  ;  very  real  indeed. 

Florrie  {reappearing).  Oh,  where  ?  Tell 
me  about  it. 

L.  I  cannot  tell  you  a  great  deal  about  it ; 
only  I  know  it  is  very  different  from  Sind- 
bad's.  In  his  valley,  there  was  only  a  dia- 
mond lying  here  and  there  ;  but,  in  the  real 
valley,  there  are  diamonds  covering  the 
grass  in  showers  every  morning,  instead  of 
dew  :  and  there  are  clusters  of  trees,  which 
look  like  lilac-trees  ;  but,  in  spring,  all  their 
blossoms  are  of  amethyst. 

Florrie.  But  there  can't  be  any  serpents, 
there,  then } 

L.   Why  not .? 

Florrie.  Because  they  don't  come  into 
such  beautiful  places. 

L.   I  never  said  it  was  a  beautiful  place. 

Florrie.  What  I  not  with  diamonds 
strewed  about  it  like  dew  ? 


12  ^be  JBtbiCB  ot  tbc  Bust 

L.  That's  according  to  your  fancy,  Flor- 
rie.     For  myself,  I  like  dew  better. 

Isabel.  Oh,  but  the  dew  won't  stay  ;  it  all 
dries  ! 

L.  Yes  ;  and  it  would  be  much  nicer  if 
the  diamonds  dried  too,  for  the  people  in 
the  valley  have  to  sweep  them  off  the  grass, 
in  heaps,  whenever  they  want  to  walk  on 
it ;  and  then  the  heaps  glitter  so,  they  hurt 
one's  eyes. 

Florrie.  Now  you're  just  playing,  you 
know. 

L.   So  are  you,  you  know. 

Florrie.   Yes,  but  you  mustn't  play. 

L.  That's  very  hard,  Florrie ;  why  mustn't 
I,  if  you  may  ? 

Florrie.  Oh,  I  may,  because  I'm  little, 
but  you  mustn't,  because  you're — (hesi/a/es 
for  a  delicate  expression  of  magnitude^. 

L.  (rudely  taking  the  first  that  comes). 
Because  Fm  big  ?  No  ;  that's  not  the  way  of 
it  at  all,  Florrie.  Because  you're  little,  you 
should  have  very  little  play  ;  and  because 
I'm  big  I  should  have  a  great  deal. 

Isabel  and  Florrie  {both).  No — no — no 
— no.  That  isn't  it  at  all.  (Isabel  sola,  quot- 
ing Miss  Ingelow. )  ' '  The  lambs  play  always 
— they  know  no  better."  {Putting  her  head 
■very  much  on  one  side.)  Ah,  now — please 
— please — tell  us  true  ;  we  want  to  know. 

L.  But  why  do  you  want  me  to  tell  you 
true,  any  more  than  the  man  who  wrote  the 
^'Arabian  Nights  "  ? 


XLbc  IDalle^  of  2)tamonD0»  13 

Isabel.  Because — because  we  like  to  know- 
about  real  things  ;  and  you  can  tell  us,  and 
we  can't  ask  the  man  who  wrote  the  stories. 

L.  What  do  you  call  real  things  ? 

Isabel.  Now,  you  know  1  Things  that 
really  are. 

L.  Whether  you  can  see  them  or  not  ? 

Isabel.   Yes,  if  somebody  else  saw  them. 

L.   But  if  nobody  has  ever  seen  them  ? 

Isabel  {evading  the  point).  Well,  but,  yoa 
know,  if  there  were  a  real  Valley  of  Dia- 
monds^ somebody  must  have  seen  it 

L.  You  cannot  be  so  sure  of  that,  Isabel. 
Many  people  go  to  real  places,  and  never 
see  them ;  and  many  people  pass  through 
this  valley,  and  never  see  it. 

Florrie.  What  stupid  people  they  must 
be! 

L.  No,  Florrie.  They  are  much  wiser 
than  the  people  who  do  see  it 

May.   I  think  I  know  where  it  is. 

Isabel.  Tell  us  more  about  it,  and  then 
we'll  guess. 

L.  Well.  There's  a  great  broad  road,  by^ 
a  river-side,  leading  up  into  it 

May  {gravely  cunning,  with  emphasis  on 
the  last  word).     Does  the  road  really  go  upP 

L.  You  think  it  should  go  down  into  a 
valley .?  No,  it  goes  up  ;  this  is  a  valleys 
among  the  hills,  and  it  is  as  high  as  the 
clouds,  and  is  often  full  of  them  ;  so  that 
even  the  people  who  most  want  to  see  it,, 
cannot,  always. 


14  ^be  iBtbice  ot  tbe  Bust. 

Isabel.  And  what  is  the  river  beside  the 
road  like  ? 

L.  It  ought  to  be  very  beautiful  because 
it  flows  over  diamond  sand — only  the  water 
as  thick  and  red. 

Isabel.   Red  water? 

L.    It  isn't  all  water. 

May.  Oh,  please  never  mind  that,  Isabel, 
just   now  ;  I  want  to  hear  about  the  valley. 

L.  So  the  entrance  to  it  is  very  wide, 
under  a  steep  rock  ;  only  such  numbers  of 
people  are  always  trying  to  get  in,  that  they 
keep  jostling  each  other,  and  manage  it  but 
slowly.  Some  weak  ones  are  pushed  back, 
and  never  get  in  at  all ;  and  make  great 
moaning  as  they  go  away  :  but  perhaps 
they  are  none  the  worse  in  the  end. 

May.  And  when  one  gets  in,  what  is  it 
like  ? 

L.  It  is  up  and  down,  broken  kind  of 
ground  :  the  road  stops  directly  ;  and  there 
are  great  dark  rocks,  covered  all  over  with 
wild  gourds  and  wild  vines  ;  the  gourds,  if 
you  cut  them,  are  red,  with  black  seeds, 
like  watermelons,  and  look  ever  so  nice  ; 
and  the  people  of  the  place  make  a  red  pot- 
tage of  them  :  but  you  must  take  care  not  to 
eat  any  if  you  ever  want  to  leave  the  valley 
(though  I  believe  putting  plenty  of  meal  in 
it  makes  it  wholesome).  Then  the  wild 
vines  have  clusters  of  the  color  of  amber  ; 
and  the  people  of  the  country  say  they  are 
the  grape    of    Eshcol ;    and  sweeter  than 


honey  :  but,  indeed,  if  anybody  else  tastes 
them,  they  are  like  gall.  Then  there  are 
thickets  of  bramble,  so  thorny  that  they 
would  be  cut  away  directly,  anywhere  else  ; 
but  here  they  are  covered  with  little  cinque- 
foiled  blossoms  of  pure  silver ;  and,  for 
berries,  they  have  clusters  of  rubies.  Dark 
rubies,  which  you  only  see  are  red  after 
gathering  them.  But  you  may  fancy  what 
blackberry  parties  the  children  have  !  Only 
they  get  their  frocks  and  hands  sadly  torn. 

Lily.  But  rubies  can't  spot  one's  frocks, 
as  blackberries  do  ? 

L.  No  ;  but  I'll  tell  you  what  spots  them 
— the  mulberries.  There  are  great  forests 
of  them,  all  up  the  hills,  covered  with  silk- 
worms, some  munching  the  leaves  so  loud 
that  it  is  like  mills  at  work ;  and  some 
spinning.  But  the  berries  are  the  blackest 
you  ever  saw  ;  and,  wherever  they  fall,  they 
stain  a  deep  red ;  r.nd  nothing  ever  washes 
it  out  again.  And  it  is  their  juice,  soaking 
through  the  grass,  which  makes  the  river  so 
red,  because  all  its  springs  are  in  this  wood. 
And  the  boughs  of  the  trees  are  twisted,  as 
if  in  pain,  like  old  olive  branches  ;  and  their 
leaves  are  dark.  And  it  is  in  these  forests 
that  the  serpents  are  ;  but  nobody  is  afraid 
of  them.  They  have  fine  crimson  crests, 
and  they  are  wreathed  about  the  wild 
branches,  one  in  every  tree,  nearly  ;  and 
they  are  singing  serpents,  for  the  serpents 
are,  in  this  forest,  what  birds  are  in  ours. 


1 6  tlbc  JStbice  of  the  Bust* 

Florrie.  Oh,  I  don't  want  to  go  there  at 
all,  now. 

L.  You  would  like  it  very  much  indeed, 
Florrie,  if  you  were  there.  The  serpents 
would  not  bite  you  ;  the  only  fear  would  be 
of  your  turning  into  one  ! 

Florrie.   Oh,  dear,  but  that's  worse. 

L.  You  wouldn't  think  so  if  you  really 
were  turned  into  one,  Florrie  ;  you  would 
be  very  proud  of  your  crest.  And  as  long 
as  you  were  yourself  (not  that  you  could  get 
there  if  you  remained  quite  the  little  Florrie 
you  are  now),  you  would  like  to  hear  the 
serpents  sing.  They  hiss  a  little  through  it, 
like  the  cicadas  in  Italy ;  but  they  keep  good 
time,  and  sing  delightful  melodies ;  and 
most  of  them  have  seven  heads,  with  throats 
which  each  take  a  note  of  the  octave  ;  so 
that  they  can  sing  chords — it  is  very  fine 
indeed.  And  the  fireflies  fly  round  the  edge 
of  the  forest  all  the  night  long  ;  you  wade 
in  fireflies,  they  make  the  fields  look  like  a 
lake  trembling  with  reflection  of  stars ;  but 
you  must  take  care  not  to  touch  them,  for 
they  are  not  like  Italian  fireflies,  but  burn, 
like  real  sparks. 

Florrie.  I  don't  like  it  at  all ;  I'll  never 
go  there. 

L.  I  hope  not,  Florrie ;  or  at  least  that 
you  will  get  out  again  if  you  do.  And  it  is 
very  difficult  to  get  out,  for  beyond  these 
serpent  forests  there  are  great  cliffs  of  dead 
gold,     which    form    a    labyrinth,    winding; 


Zhc  IDallcs  ot  2)iamonD0»  17 

always  higher  and  higher,  till  the  gold  is  all 
split  asunder  by  wedges  of  ice  ;  and  gla- 
ciers, welded,  half  of  ice  seven  times  frozen, 
and  half  of  gold  seven  times  frozen,  hang 
down  from  them,  and  fall  in  thunder,  cleaving 
into  deadly  splinters,  like  the  Cretan  arrow- 
heads ;  and  into  a  mixed  dust  of  snow  and 
gold,  ponderous,  yet  which  the  mountain 
whirlwinds  are  able  to  lift  and  drive  in 
wreaths  and  pillars,  hiding  the  paths  with  a 
burial  cloud,  fatal  at  once  with  wintry  chill, 
and  weig^ht  of  golden  ashes.  So  the  wan- 
derers in  the  labyrinth  fall,  one  by  one,  and 
are  buried  there  : — yet,  over  the  drifted 
graves,  those  who  are  spared  climb  to  the 
last,  through  coil  on  coil  of  the  path  ;— for 
at  the  end  of  it  they  see  the  king  of  the  val- 
ley, sitting  on  his  throne  :  and  beside  him 
(but  it  is  only  a  false  vision),  spectra  of  creat- 
ures like  themselves,  sit  on  thrones,  from 
which  they  seem  to  look  down  on  all  the 
kingdoms  of  the  world,  and  the  glory  of 
them.  And  on  the  canopy  of  his  throne 
there  is  an  inscription  in  fiery  letters,  which 
they  strive  to  read,  but  cannot ;  for  it  is 
written  in  words  which  are  like  the  words 
of  all  languages,  and  yet  are  of  none.  Men 
say  it  is  more  like  their  own  tongue  to  the 
English  than  it  is  to  any  other  nation ;  but 
the  only  record  of  it  is  by  an  Italian,  who 
heard  the  king  himself  cry  it  as  a  war-cry, 
"  Pape  Satan,  Pape  Satan  Aleppe/'  * 
*  Dante,  Inf.  7  i. 
2 


i8  XTbe  JBtbiC6  ot  tbe  Dust, 

Sibyl.  But  do  they  all  perish  there  ?  You 
said  there  was  a  way  through  the  valley, 
and  out  of  it. 

L.  Yes  ;  but  few  find  it.  If  any  of  them 
keep  to  the  grass  paths,  where  the  diamonds 
are  swept  aside,  and  hold  their  hands  over 
their  eyes  so  as  not  to  be  dazzled,  the  grass 
paths  lead  forward  gradually  to  a  place 
where  one  sees  a  little  opening  in  the  golden 
rocks.  You  were  at  Chamouni  last  year, 
Sibyl  ;  did  your  guide  chance  to  show  you 
the  pierced  rock  of  the  Aiguille  du  JMidi  ? 

Sibyl.  No,  indeed,  we  only  got  up  from 
Geneva  on  Monday  night  ;  and  it  rained  all 
Tuesday  ;  and  we  had  to  be  back  at  Geneva 
again,  early  on  Wednesday  morning. 

L.  Of  course.  That  is  the  way  to  see  a 
country  in  a  Sibylline  manner,  by  inner 
consciousness  :  but  you  might  have  seen  the 
pierced  rock  in  your  drive  up,  or  down,  if 
the  clouds  broke  :  not  that  there  is  much  to 
see  in  it ;  one  of  the  crags  of  the  aiguille- 
edge,  on  the  southern  slope  of  it,  is  struck 
sharply  through,  as  by  an  awl,  into  a  little 
eyelet  hole ;  which  you  may  see,  seven 
thousand  feet  above  the  valley  (as  the  clouds 
ilit  past  behind  it,  or  leave  the  sky),  first 
white,  and  then  dark  blue.  Well,  there's 
just  such  an  eyelet  hole  in  one  of  the  upper 
■crags  of  the  Diamond  Valley  ;  and,  from  a 
distance,  you  think  that  it  is  no  bigger  than 
the  eye  of  a  needle.  But  if  you  get  up  to 
it,  they  say  you  may  drive  a  loaded  camel 


Zbc  \Dallci2  ot  2)iamonD0»  19 

through  it,  and  that  there  are  fine  things  on 
the  other  side,  but  I  have  never  spoken  with 
anybody  who  had  been  through. 

Sibyl.  I  think  we  understand  it  now.  We 
will  try  to  write  it  down,  and  think  of  it. 

L.  Meantime,  Florrie,  though  all  that  I 
have  been  telling  you  is  very  true,  yet  you 
must  not  think  the  sort  of  diamonds  that 
people  wear  in  rings  and  necklaces  are 
found  lying  about  on  the  grass.  Would  you 
like  to  see  how  they  really  are  found  ? 

Florrie.   Oh,  yes — yes. 

L.  Isabel — or  Lily — run  up  to  my  room 
and  fetch  me  the  little  box  with  a  glass  lid 
out  of  the  top  drawer  of  the  chest  of  drawers. 
iRace  between  Lily  and  Isabel.  ) 

(Re-enter  Isabel  with  the  box,  very  much 
out  of  breath.      Lily  behind.) 

L.  Why,  you  never  can  beat  Lily  in  a 
race  on  the  stairs,  can  you,  Isabel  1 

Isabel  {panting).  Lily — beat  me — ever 
so  far — but  she  gave  me — the  box — to  carry 
in. 

L.  Take  off  the  lid,  then  ;  gently. 

Florrie  (after  peeping  in,  disappointed). 
There's  only  a  great  ugly  brown  stone  ! 

L.  Not  much  more  than  that,  certainly, 
Florrie,  if  people  were  wise.  But  look,  it  is 
not  a  single  stone  ;  but  a  knot  of  pebbles 
fastened  together  by  gravel  :  and  in  the 
gravel,  or  compressed  sand,  if  you  look 
close  you  will  see  grains  of  gold  glittering 
everywhere,  all  through ;  and  then,  do  you 


20  IT'oe  BtbtC0  of  tbe  Dust 

see  these  two  white  beads,  w^hich  shine,  a& 
if  they  had  been  covered  with  grease  ? 

Florrie.   May  I  touch  them  ? 

L.  Yes  ;  you  will  find  they  are  not  greasy, 
only  very  smooth.  Well,  those  are  the  fatal 
jewels  ;  native  here  in  their  dust  with  gold, 
so  that  you  may  see,  cradled  here  together, 
the  two  great  enemies  of  mankind, — the- 
strongest  of  all  malignant  physical  powers- 
that  have  tormented  our  race. 

Sibyl.  Is  that  really  so  ?  I  know  they  do- 
great  harm  ;  but  do  they  not  also  do  great 
good  ? 

L.  My  dear  child,  what  good  ?  Was  any 
woman,  do  you  suppose,  ever  the  better  for 
possessing  diamonds.?  but  how  many  have- 
been  made  base,  frivolous,  and  miserable  by 
desiring  them  ?  Was  ever  man  the  better 
for  having  coffers  full  of  gold.?  but  who 
shall  measure  the  guilt  that  is  incurred  ta 
fill  them.?  Look  into  the  history  of  any 
civilized  nations  ;  analyze,  with  reference  to 
this  one  cause  of  crime  and  misery,  the  lives- 
and  thoughts  of  their  nobles,  priests,  mer- 
chants, and  men  of  luxurious  life.  Every 
other  temptation  is  at  last  concentrated  into 
this  :  pride,  and  lust,  and  envy,  and  anger 
all  give  up  their  strength  to  avarice.  The 
sin  of  the  whole  world  is  essentially  the 
sin  of  Judas.  Men  do  not  disbelieve  their 
Christ ;  but  they  sell  Him. 

Sibyl.  But  surely  that  is  the  fault  of  human 
nature  ?  it  is  not  caused  by  the  accident,  aa 


ilbe  TDalle^  ot  2)iamonD0»  2r 

it  were,  of  there  being  a  pretty  metal,  like 
gold,  to  be  found  by  dig-ging.  If  people 
could  not  find  that,  would  they  not  find 
-something  else,  and  quarrel  for  it  instead  ? 

L.  No.  Wherever  legislators  have  suc- 
ceeded in  excluding,  for  a  time,  jewels  and 
precious  metals  from  among  national  pos- 
sessions, the  national  spirit  has  remained 
healthy.  Covetousness  is  not  natural  to  man 
— generosity  is  ;  but  covetousness  must  be 
excited  by  a  special  cause,  as  a  given  disease 
by  a  given  miasma  ;  and  the  essential  nature 
of  a  material  for  the  excitement  of  covetous- 
ness is,  that  it  shall  be  a  beautiful  thing 
which  can  be  retained  without  a  use.  The 
moment  we  can  use  our  possessions  to  any 
good  purpose  ourselves,  the  instinct  of  com- 
municating that  use  to  others  rises  side  by 
side  with,  our  power.  If  you  can  read  a 
book  rightly,  you  will  want  others  to  hear 
it;  if  you  can  enjoy  a  picture  rightly,  you 
will  want  others  to  see  it :  learn  how  to 
manage  a  horse,  a  plough,  or  a  ship,  and 
you  will  desire  to  make  your  subordinates 
good  horsemen,  ploughmen,  or  sailors  ;  you 
will  never  be  able  to  see  the  fine  instrument 
you  are  master  of  abused;  but  once  fix 
your  desire  on  anything  useless,  and  all  the 
purest  pride  and  folly  in  your  heart  will  mix 
with  the  desire,  and  make  you  at  last  wholly 
inhuman,  a  mere  ugly  lump  of  stomach  and 
suckers,  like  a  cuttle-fish. 

Sibyl.   But     surely,    these   two    beautiful 


22  ^be  iBtbiCB  ot  tbe  5)u6t 

things,  gold  and  diamonds,  must  have  been 
appointed  to  some  good  purpose  ? 

L.  Quite    conceivably   so,    my    dear  :    as 
also    earthquakes    and   pestilences  ;    but  of 
such  ultimate  purposes  we  can  have  no  sight. 
The  practical,  immediate  office  of  the  earth- 
quake   and   pestilence   is   to   slay   us,    like 
moths  ;  and,  as  moths,  we  shall  be  wise  to 
live   out  of  their   way.      So,   the  practical, 
immediate  office  of  gold  and  diamonds  is 
the  multiplied  destruction  of  souls  (in  what- 
ever sense  you  have  been  taught  to  under- 
stand  that    phrase)  ;    and   the   paralysis   of 
wholesome   human    effort    and  thought    on 
the  face  of  God's  earth  :  and  a  wise  nation 
will   live   out   of  the   way    of   them.     The 
money  which  the  English  habitually  spend 
in  cutting  diamonds  would,  in  ten  years,  if 
it   were    applied   to    cutting   rocks  instead, 
leave  no  dangerous  reef  nor  difficult  harbor 
round  the  whole  island  coast.      Great  Britain 
would  be  a  diamond  worth  cutting,  indeed, 
a  true  piece  of  regalia.      (Leaves  this  io  their 
thoughts  for  a  little  while).     Then,  also,  we 
poor  mineralogists  might  sometimes  have 
the  chance  of  seeing  a  fine   crystal  of  dia- 
mond unbacked  by  the  jeweler. 

Sibyl.   Would  it  be  more  beautiful  uncut?' 

L.  No  ;  but  of  infinite  interest.  We 
might  even  come  to  know  something  about 
the  making  of  diamonds. 

Sibyl.  I  thought  the  chemists  could  make 
them  already  ? 


^be  \i)alle^  ot  Diamonds.  25 

L.  In  very  small  black  crystals,  yes  ;  but 
no  one  knows  how  they  are  formed  where 
they  are  found  ;  or  if  indeed  they  are  formed 
there  at  all.  These,  in  my  hand,  look  as  if 
they  had  been  swept  down  with  the  gravel 
and  gold ;  only  we  can  trace  the  gravel  and 
gold  to  their  native  rocks,  bu.  not  the  dia- 
monds. Read  the  account  given  of  the  dia- 
mond in  any  good  work  on  mineralogy  ; — 
you  will  find  nothing  but  lists  of  localities  of 
gravel,  or  conglomerate  rock  (which  is  only 
an  old  indurated  gravel).  Some  say  it  was 
once  a  vegetable  gum  ;  but  it  may  have  been 
charred  wood  ;  but  what  one  would  like  to 
know  is,  mainly,  why  charcoal  should  make 
itself  into  diamonds  in  India,  and  only  into 
black  lead  in  Borrowdale. 

Sibyl.   Are  they  wholly  the  s£ime,  then  ? 

L.  There  is  a  little  iron  mixed  with  our 
black  lead ;  but  nothing  to  hinder  its  crys- 
tallization. Your  pencils  in  fact  are  all 
pointed  with  formless  diamond,  though  they 
would  be  H  H  H  pencils  to  purpose,  if  it 
crystallized. 

Sibyl.   But  what  is  crystallization  ? 

L.  A  pleasant  question,  when  one's  half 
asleep,  and  it  has  been  tea-time  these  two 
hours.     What  thoughtless  things  girls  are  ! 

Sibyl.  Yes,  we  are  ;  but  we  want  to  know, 
for  all  that 

L.  My  dear,  it  would  take  a  week  to  tell 
you. 

Sibyl.  Well,  take  it,  and  tell  us. 


24  ^be  Mtbics  of  the  Du6t. 

L.   But  nobody  knows  anything-  about  it. 
Sibyl.   Then  tell  us  something  that  nobody 
knows. 

L.   Get  along  with  you,  and  tell  Dora  to 
make  tea. 

{77ie  house  rises  ;  hut  of  course  the  Lec- 
turer wanted  to  he  forced  to  tecture 
again^  and  was. ) 


LECTURE  2. 

THE  PYRAMID  BUILDERS. 


LECTURE  11. 

THE  P  YRA  MID  B  UILDERS. 

In  the  targe  Schoolroom,  to  which   everybody  has  been 
summoned  by  ringing  of  the  great  bell. 

L.  So  you  have  all  actually  come  to  hear 
about  crystallization  !  I  cannot  conceive 
why,  unless  the  little  ones  think  that  the 
discussion  may  involve  som^  reference  to 
sugar-candy. 

{^Symptoms  of  high  displeasure  among 
the  young  e  memberrs  of  council.  Isa- 
bel frowns  severely  at  L.,  and  shakes 
her  head  violently. ) 

My  dear  children,  if  you  knew  it,  you 
are  yourselves,  at  this  moment,  as  you 
sit  in  your  ranks,  nothing,  in  the  eye 
of  a  mineralogist,  but  a  lovely-  group  of 
rosy  sugar-candy,  arranged  by  atomic 
forces.  And  even  admitting  you  to  be 
something  more,  you  have  certainly  been 
crystallizing  without  knowing  it.  Did  not 
I  hear  a  great  hurrying  and  whispering, 
ten  minutes  ago,  when  you  were  late  in  from 
the  playground ;  and  thought  you  would 
not  all  be  quietly  seated  by  the  time  I  was 

27 


28  ^bc  JBmc6  of  tbe  2)u6t» 

ready  : — besides  some  discussion  about 
places — something- about  "  it's  not  being  fair 
that  the  little  ones  should  always  be  near- 
est ? "  Well,  you  were  then  all  being 
crystallized.  When  you  ran  in  from  the 
garden,  and  against  one  another  in  the 
passages,  you  were  in  what  mineralogists 
would  call  a  state  of  solution,  and  gradual 
confluence  ;  when  you  got  seated  in  those 
orderly  rows,  each  in  her  proper  place,  you 
became  crystalline.  That  is  just  what  the 
atoms  of  a  mineral  do,  if  they  can,  when- 
ever they  get  disordered :  they  get  into 
order  again  as^oon  as  may  be. 

I  hope  you  feel  inclined  to  interrupt  me, 
and  say,  "  But  we  know  our  places  ;  how  do 
the  atoms  know  theirs  ?  And  sometimes 
Ave  dispute  about  our  places  ;  do  the  atoms 
— (and,  besides,  we  don't  like  being  com- 
pared to  atoms  at  all) — never  dispute  about 
Iheirs  ?  "  Two  wise  questions  these,  if  you 
had  a  mind  to  put  them  !  it  was  long  before 
I  asked  them  myself,  of  myself.  And  I  will 
not  call  you  atoms  any  more.  May  I  call 
you — let  me  see — **  primary  molecules''.'' 
(  General  dissent  indicated  in  subdued  hut 
decisive  murmurs.)  No  !  not  even,  in  fa- 
miliar Saxon,   ''  dust  "  } 

{Pause,  with  expression  on /aces  of  sor^ 
rowful  doubt ;  Lily  gives  voice  to  the 
general  sentiment  in  a  timid  *  *  Please 
don't. ') 


No,  children,  I  won't  call  you  that  ;  and 
mind,  as  you  grow  up,  that  you  do  not  get 
into  an  idle  and  wicked  habit  of  callings 
yourselves  that.  You  are  something  better 
than  dust,  and  have  other  duties  to  do  than 
ever  dust  can  do  ;  and  the  bonds  of  affec- 
tion you  will  enter  into  are  better  than 
merely  "  getting  into  order. "  But  see  to  it,  on 
the  other  hand,  that  you  always  behave  at 
least  as  well  as  ''dust  :  "  remember,  it  is  only 
on  compulsion,  and  while  it  has  no  free  per- 
mission to  do  as  it  likes,  that  //  ever  gets 
out  of  order;  but  sometimes,  with  some  of 
us,  the  compulsion  has  to  be  the  other  way 
— hasn't  it  ?  (Remonstratory  whispers,  ex- 
pressive of  opinion  that  the  Lecturer  is  he- 
coming  too  personal.')  I'm  not  looking  at 
anybody  in  particular — indeed  I  am  not* 
Nay,  if  you  blush  so,  Kathleen,  how  can 
one  help  looking.?  We'll  go  back  to  the 
atoms. 

''  How  do  they  know  their  places  .?  "  you 
asked,  or  should  have  asked.  Yes,  and  they 
have  to  do  much  more  than  know  them  : 
they  have  to  find  their  way  to  them,  and 
that  quietly  and  at  once,  without  running 
against  each  other. 

We  may,  indeed,  state  it  briefly  thus  : — 
Suppose  you  have  to  build  a  castle,  with 
towers  and  roofs  and  buttresses,  out  of 
bricks  of  a  given  shape,  and  that  these 
bricks  are  all  lying  in  a  huge  heap  at  the 
bottom,   in    utter   confusion,    upset    out  of 


30  Xlbc  J£tblc6  ot  tbc  Dust. 

carts  at  random.  You  would  have  to  draw 
a  great  many  plans,  and  count  all  your 
Ibricks,  and  be  sure  you  had  enough  for  this 
and  that  tower,  before  you  began,  and  then 
you  would  have  to  lay  your  founda- 
tion, and  add  layer  by  layer,  in  order, 
slowly. 

But  how  would  you  be  astonished  in 
these  melancholy  days,  when  children  don't 
read  children's  books,  nor  believe  any  more 
in  fairies,  if  suddenly  a  real  benevolent 
fairy,  in  a  bright  brick-red  gown,  were  to 
rise  in  the  midst  of  the  red  bricks,  and  to 
lap  the  heap  of  them  with  her  wand,  and 
say,  ''Bricks,  bricks,  to  your  places  !  "  and 
then  you  saw  in  an  instant  the  whole  heap 
rise  in  the  air,  like  a  swarm  of  red  bees, 
and — you  have  been  used  to  see  bees  make 
a  honeycomb,  and  to  thiflk  that  strange 
enough,  but  now  you  would  see  the  honey- 
comb make  itself ! — You  want  to  ask 
-something,  Florrie,  by  the  look  of  your 
eyes. 

Florrie.  Are  they  turned  into  real  bees, 
Avith  stings  ? 

L.  No,  Florrie ;  you  are  only  to  fancy 
ilying  bricks,  as  you  saw  the  slates  flying 
from  the  roof  the  other  day  in  the  storm  ; 
only  those  slates  didn't  seem  to  know  where 
they  were  going,  : and,  besides,  were  going 
where  they  had  no  business  :  but  my  spell- 
bound bricks,  though  they  have  no  wings, 
and,  what  is  worse,  no  heads  and  no  eyes. 


XTbe  Pi^tamlD  JButlOers*  31 

yet  find  their  way  in  the  air  just  where  they 
should  settle,  into  towers  and  roofs,  each 
flying  to  his  place  and  fastening  there  at  the 
right  moment,  so  that  every  other  one  shall 
fit  to  him  in  his  turn. 

Lily.  But  who  are  the  fairies,  then,  who 
l3uild  the  crystals  ? 

L.  There  is  one  great  fairy,  Lily,  who 
T3uilds  much  more  than  crystals  ;  but  she 
l)uilds  these  also.  I  dreamed  that  I  saw  her 
building  a  pyramid,  the  other  day,  as  she 
used  to  do,  for  the  Pharaohs. 

Isabel.   But  that  was  only  a  dream  ? 

L.  Some  dreams  are  truer  than  some 
^wakings,  Isabel ;  but  I  won't  tell  it  you  un- 
less you  like. 

Isabel.   Oh,  please,  please. 

L.  You  are  all  such  wise  children,  there's 
no  talking  to  you  ;  you  won't  believe  any- 
thing. 

Lily.  No,  we  are  not  wise,  and  we  will 
•  believe  anything,  when  you  say  we  ought. 

L.  Well,  it  came  about  this  way.  Sibyl, 
do  you  recollect  that  evening  when  we  had 
been  looking  at  your  old  cave  by  Cumae, 
and  wondering  why  you  didn't  live  there 
still  :  and  then  we  wondered  how  old  you 
were  ;  and  Egypt  said  you  wouldn't  tell, 
and  nobody  else  could  tell  but  she ;  and 
you  laughed — I  thought  very  gayly  for  a 
Sibyl — and  said  you  would  harness  a  flock 
of  cranes  for  us,  and  we  might  fly  over  to 
Egypt  if  we  liked,  and  see. 


32  tTbe  BtbiC6  of  tbe  5)ii^^> 

Sibyl.  Yes,  and  you  went,  and  couldn't 
find  out  after  all  ! 

L.  Why,  you  know,  Egypt  had  been  just 
doublmg  that  third  pyramid  of  hers  ;  *  and 
making  a  new  entrance  into  it ;  and  a  fine 
entrance  it  was  !  First,  we  had  to  go 
through  an  ante-room,  which  had  both  its 
doors  blocked  up  with  stones  ;  and  then  we 
had  three  granite  portcullises  to  pull  up, 
one  after  another  ;  and  the  moment  we  had 
got  under  them,  Egypt  signed  to  somebody 
above ;  and  down  they  came  again  behind 
us,  with  a  roar  like  thunder,  only  louder; 
then  we  got  into  a  passage  fit  for  nobody 
but  rats,  and  Egypt  wouldn't  go  any  further 
herself,  but  said  we  might  go  on  if  we 
liked ;  and  so  we  came  to  a  hole  in  the 
pavement,  and  then  to  a  granite  trap-door 
— and  then  we  thought  we  had  gone  quite 
far  enough,  and  came  back,  and  Egypt 
laughed  at  us. 

Egypt.  You  would  not  have  had  me  take 
my  crown  off,  and  stoop  all  the  way  down 
a  passage  fit  only  for  rats  ? 

L.  It  was  not  the  crown,  Egypt — you 
know  that  very  well.  It  was  the  flounces, 
that  would  not  let  you  go  any  farther  I 
suppose,  however,  you  wear  them  as  typical 
of.  the  inundation  of  the  Nile,  so  it  is  all 
right. 

Isabel.  Why    didn't  you    take  me    with 


you  ?  Where  rats  can  go,  mice  can.  I 
wouldn't  have  come  back. 

L.  No,  mousie  ;  you  would  have  gone  on 
by  yourself,  and  you  might  have  waked 
one  of  Pasht's  cats,*  and  it  would  have 
eaten  you.  I  was  very  glad  you  were  not 
there.  But  after  all  this  I  suppose  the  im- 
agination of  the  heavy  granite  blocks  and 
the  underground  ways  had  troubled  me,  and 
dreams  are  often  shaped  in  a  strange  op- 
position to  the  impressions  that  have  caused 
them  ;  and  from  all  that  we  had  been  read- 
ing in  Bunsen  about  stones  that  couldn't  be 
lifted  with  levers,  I  began  to  dream  about 
stones  that  lifted  themselves  with  wings. 

Sibyl.  Now  you  must  just  tell  us  all  about 
it. 

L.  I  dreamed  that  I  was  standing  beside 
the  lake,  out  of  whose  clay  the  bricks  were 
made  for  the  great  pyramid  of  Asychis.f 
They  had  just  been  all  finished,  and  were 
lying  by  the  lake  margin,  in  long  ridges, 
like  waves.  It  was  near  evening  ;  and  as  I 
looked  towards  the  sunset,  I  saw  a  thing 
like  a  dark  pillar  standing  where  the  rock  of 
the  desert  stoops  to  the  Nile  valley.  I  did 
not  know  there  was  a  pillar  there,  and 
wondered  at  it ;  and  it  grew  larger,  and 
glided  nearer,  becoming  like  the  form  of  a 
man,  but  vast,  and  it  did  not  move  its  feet, 
but  glided,  like  a  pillar  of  sand.     And  as  it 

*  Note  iii.  t  Note  ii. 

I  nN"IVERSITY  ] 


34  ^be  J6tbiC0  ot  tbe  Dust* 

drew  nearer,  I  looked  by  chance  past  it, 
towards  the  sun;  and  saw  a  silver  cloud, 
which  was  of  all  the  clouds  closest  to  the  sun 
(and  in  one  place  crossed  it),  draw  itself  back 
from  the  sun,  suddenly.  And  it  turned,  and 
shot  towards  the  dark  pillar  ;  leaping  in  an 
arch,  like  an  arrow  out  of  a  bow.  And  I 
thought  it  was  lightning  ;  but  when  it  came 
near  the  shadowy  pillar,  it  sank  slowly 
down  beside  it,  and  changed  into  the 
shape  of  a  woman,  very  beautiful,  and  with 
a  strength  of  deep  calm  in  her  blue  eyes. 
She  was  robed  to  the  feet  with  a  white  robe  ; 
and  above  that,  to  her  knees,  by  the  cloud 
which  I  had  seen  across  the  sun;  but  all 
the  golden  ripples  of  it  had  become  plumes, 
so  that  it  had  changed  into  two  bright  wings 
like  those  of  a  vulture,  which  wrapped  round 
her  to  her  knees.  She  had  a  weaver's  shuttle 
hanging  over  her  shoulder,  by  the  thread  of 
it,  and  in  her  left  hand,  arrows,  tipped  with 
fire. 

Isabel  {clapping  her  hands).  Oh  !  it  was 
Neith,  it  was  Neith  I     I  know  now. 

L.  Yes  ;  it  was  Neith  herself ;  and  as  the 
two  great  spirits  came  nearer  to  me,  I  saw 
they  were  the  Brother  and  Sister — the  pil- 
lared shadow  was  the  greater  Pthah.*  And 
I  heard  them  speak,  and  the  sound  of  their 
words  was  like  a  distant  singing.  I  could 
not  understand  the  words  one  by  one  ;  yet 
their  sense  came  to  me  ;  and  so  I  knew  that 
*  Note  ill. 


Neith  had  come  down  to  see  her  brother's 
work,  and  the  work  that  he  had  put  into  the 
mind  of  the  king  to  make  his  servants  do. 
And  she  was  displeased  at  it  ;  because  she 
saw  only  pieces  of  dark  clay  ;  and  no  por- 
phyry, nor  marble,  nor  any  fair  stone  that 
men  might  engrave  the  figures  of  the  gods 
upon.  And  she  blamed  her  brother,  and 
said,  ''Oh,  Lord  of  truth  !  is  this  then  thy 
will,  that  men  should  mold  only  four- 
square pieces  of  clay  :  and  the  forms  of  the 
gods  no  more  ? "  Then  the  Lord  of  truth 
sighed,  and  said,  ''Oh!  sister,  in  truth  they 
do  not  love  us  ;  why  should  they  set  up  our 
images  ?  Let  them  do  what  they  may,  and 
not  lie — let  them  make  their  clay  four- 
square ;  and  labor  ;  and  perish." 

Then  Neith's  dark  blue  eyes  grew  darker, 
and  she  said,  "Oh,  Lord  of  truth!  why 
should  they  love  us  ?  their  love  is  vain  ;  or 
fear  us  ?  for  their  fear  is  base.  Yet  let  them 
testify  of  us,  that  they,  knew  we  lived  for- 
ever. " 

But  the  Lord  of  truth  answered,  "They 
know,  and  yet  they  know  not.  Let  them 
keep  silence  ;  for  their  silence  only  is  truth. '' 

But  Neith  answered,  "  Brother,  wilt  thou 
also  make  league  with  Death,  because  Death 
is  true  ?  Oh  !  thou  potter,  who  hast  cast 
these  human  things  from  thy  wheel,  many 
to  dishonor,  and  few  to  honor  ;  wilt  thou 
not  let  them  so  much  as  see  my  face ;  but 
slay  them  in  slavery  ?  " 


36  Zbc  mbics  ot  tbc  'BnsU 

But  Pthah  only  answered,  ''Let  them 
build,  sister,  let  them  build." 

And  Neith  answered,  ''What  shall  they 
build,  if  I  build  not  with  them  ? " 

And  Pthah  drew  with  his  measuring  rod 
upon  the  sand.  And  I  saw  suddenly,  drawn 
on  the  sand,  the  outlines  of  great  cities,  and 
of  vaults,  and  domes,  and  aqueducts,  and 
bastions,  and  towers,  greater  than  obelisks, 
covered  with  black  clouds.  And  the  wind 
blew  ripples  of  sand  amidst  the  lines  that 
Pthah  drew,  and  the  moving  sand  was  like 
the  marching  of  men.  But  I  saw  that  wher- 
ever Neith  looked  at  the  lines,  they  faded, 
and  were  effaced. 

"Oh,  Brother  !  "  she  said  at  last,  "  what 
is  this  vanity  ?  If  I,  who  am  Lady  of  wis- 
dom, do  not  mock  the  children  of  men,  why 
shouldst  thou  mock  them  who  art  Lord 
of  truth?"  But  Pthah  answered,  "They 
thought  to  bind  me  ;  and  they  vShall  be 
bound.  They  shall  labor  in  the  fire  for 
vanity." 

And  Neith  said,  looking  at  the  sand, 
"Brother,  there  is  no  true  labor  here — there 
is  only  weary  life  and  wasteful  death." 

And  Pthah  answered,  "Is  it  not  truer 
labor,  sister,  than  thy  sculpture  of  dreams  ?  "^ 

Then  Neith  smiled ;  and  stopped  sud- 
denly. 

She  looked  to  the  sun  ;  its  edge  touched 
the  horizon-edge  of  the  desert.  Then  she 
looked  to  the  long   heaps  of  pieces  of  clay 


that  lay,  each  with  its  blue  shadow,  by  the 
lake  shore. 

* '  Brother, "  she  said,  '*  how  long  will  this 
pyramid  of  thine  be  in  building?  " 

''Thoth  will  have  sealed  the  scroll  of  the 
years  ten  times,  before  the  summit  is  laid." 

**  Brother,  thou  knowest  not  how  to  teach 
thy  children  to  labor,"  answered  Neith, 
''Look  !  I  must  follow  Phre  beyond  Atlas  ; 
shall  I  build  your  pyramid  for  you  before  he 
goes  down  ? "  And  Pthah  answered,  ' '  Yea, 
sister,  if  thou  canst  put  thy  winged  shoulders 
to  such  work."  And  Neith  drew  herself  to 
her  height ;  and  I  heard  a  clashing  pass 
through  the  plumes  of  her  wings,  and  the 
asp  stood  up  on  her  helmet,  and  fire  gath- 
ered in  her  eye.  And  she  took  one  of  the 
flaming  arrows  out  of  the  sheaf  in  her  left 
hand,  and  stretched  it  out  over  the  heaps  of 
clay.  And  they  rose  up  like  flights  of 
locusts,  and  spread  themselves  in  the  air, 
so  that  it  grew  dark  in  a  moment.  Then 
Neith  designed  them  places  with  her  arrow 
point ;  and  they  drew  into  ranks,  like  dark 
clouds  laid  level  at  morning.  Then  Neith 
pointed  with  her  arrow  to  the  north,  and  to 
the  south,  and  to  the  east,  and  to  the  west  ; 
and  the  flying  motes  of  earth  drew  asunder 
into  four  great  ranked  crowds ;  and  stood, 
one  in  the  north,  and  one  in  the  south,  and 
one  in  the  east,  and  one  in  the  west — one 
against  another.  Then  Neith  spread  her 
wings  wide  for  an  instant,  and  closed   them 


38  ^be  iStbics  of  tbe  Bust* 

with  a  sound  like  the  sound  of  a  rushing* 
sea ;  and  waved  her  hand  towards  the 
foundation  of  the  pyramid,  where  it  was 
laid  on  the  brow  of  the  desert.  And  the  four 
flocks  drew  together  and  sank  down,  Hke 
sea-birds  settling  to  a  level  rock,  and  when 
they  met,  there  was  a  sudden  flame,  as 
broad  as  the  pyramid,  and  as  high  as  the 
clouds  ;  and  it  dazzled  me  ;  and  I  closed  my 
eyes  for  an  instant  ;  and  when  I  looked 
again  the  pyramid  stood  on  its  rock,  per- 
fect ;  and  purple  with  the  light  from  the  edge 
of  the  sinking  sun. 

The  YOUXGER  Children  (variously  pleased). 
I'm  so  glad  !  How  nice  !  But  what  did 
Pthah  say  ? 

L.  Neith  did  not  wait  to  hear  what  he 
would  say.  When  I  turned  back  to  look  at 
her,  she  was  gone  ;  and  I  only  saw  the  level 
white  cloud  form  itself  again,  close  to  the 
arch  of  the  sun  as  it  sank.  And  as  the  last 
edge  of  the  sun  disappeared,  the  form  of 
Pthah  faded  into  a  mighty  shadow,  and  so 
passed  away. 

Egypt.  And  was  Neith's  pyramid  left  1 

L.  Yes  ;  but  you  could  not  think,  Egypt, 
what  a  strange  feeling  of  utter  loneliness 
came  over  me  when  the  presence  of  the  two 
gods  passed  away.  It  seemed  as  if  I  had 
never  known  what  it  was  to  be  alone  before  ; 
and  the  unbroken  line  of  the  desert  was  ter- 
rible. 

Egypt.   I   used  to  feel   that,  when  I  was 


queen  :  sometimes  I  had  to  carve  gods  •  for 
company,  all  over  my  palace.  I  Would  faia 
have  seen  real  ones,  if  I  could. 

L.  But  listen  a  moment  yet,  for  tHat  was 
not  quite  all  my  dream.  The  twilight  drew 
swiftly  to  the  dark,  and  I  could  hardly  see 
the  great  pyramid  ;  when  there  came  a 
heavy  murmuring  sound  in  the  air  ;  and  a 
horned  beetle,  with  terrible  claws,  fell  on 
the  sand  at  my  feet,  with  a  blow  like  the 
beat  of  a  hammer.  Then  it  stood  up  on  its 
hind  claws,  and  waved  its  pincers  at  me  : 
audits  fore  claws  became  strong  arms,  and 
hands  ;  one  grasping  real  iron  pincers,  and 
the  other  a  huge  hammer ;  and  it  had  a  hel- 
met on  its  head,  without  any  e3^elet  holes, 
that  I  could  see.  And  its  two  hind  claws 
became  strong  crooked  legs,  with  feet  bent 
inwards.  And  so  there  stood  by  me  a  dwarf, 
in  glossy  black  armor,  ribbed  and  embossed 
like  a  beetle's  back,  leaning  on  his  hammer. 
And  I  could  not  speak  for  wonder  ;  but  he 
spoke  with  a  murmur  like  the  dying  away 
of  a  beat  upon  a  bell.  He  said,  "I  will 
make  Neith's  great  pyramid  small.  I  am 
the  lower  Pthah:  and  have  power  over  fire. 
I  can  wither  the  strong  things,  and  strength- 
en the  weak ;  and  everything  that  is  great 
I  can  make  small,  and  everything  that  is 
little  I  can  make  great."  Then  he  turned  to 
the  angle  of  the  pyramid  and  limped 
towards  it.  And  the  pyramid  grew  deep 
purple  ;  and  then  red  like  blood,  and  then 


40  V^bc  ;iEtbtC6  ot  tbc  Bust. 

pale  rose-color  like  fire.  And  I  saw  that 
it  glowed  with  fire  from  within.  And  the 
lower  Pthah  touched  it  with  the  hand 
that  held  the  pincers ;  and  it  sank  down 
like  the  sand  in  an  hour-^lass, — then  drew 
itself  together,  and  sank,  still,  and  became 
nothing,  it  seemed  to  me  ;  but  the  armed 
dwarf  stooped  down,  and  took  it  into 
his  hand,  and  brought  it  to  me  saying, 
''Everything  that  is  great  I  can  make  like 
this  pyramid  ;  and  give  into  men's  hands  to 
destroy."  And  I  saw  that  he  had  a  little 
pyramid  in  his  hand,  with  as  many  courses 
in  it  as  the  large  one ;  and  built  like  that, — 
only  so  small.  And  because  it  glowed  still, 
I  was  afraid  to  touch  it ;  but  Pthah  said, 
**  Touch  it — for  I  have  bound  the  fire  within 
it,  so  that  it  cannot  bum."  So  I  touched  it, 
and  took  it  into  my  own  hand ;  and  it  was 
cold ;  only  red,  like  a  ruby.  And  Pthah 
laughed,  and  became  like  a  beetle  again, 
and  buried  himself  in  the  sand,  fiercely ; 
throwing  it  back  over  his  shoulders.  And  it 
seemed  to  me  as  if  he  would  draw  me  down 
with  him  into  the  sand  ;  and  I  started  back, 
and  woke  holding  the  little  pyramid  so  fast 
in  my  hand  that  it  hurt  me. 

Egypt.   Holding  what  in  your  hand  ? 

L.  The  little  pyramid. 

Egypt.   Neith's  pyramid } 

L.  Neith's,  I  believe  ;  though  not  built  for 
Asychis.  I  know  only  that  it  is  a  little  rosy 
transparent   pyramid,  built  of  more  courses 


of  bricks  than  I  can  count,  it  being  made  so 
small.  You  don't  believe  me,  of  course, 
Egyptian  infidel  ;  but  there  it  is.  {Giving 
'Crystal 0/ rose  Fluor.) 

{Con/used  examination  by  crowded  audi- 
ence, over  each  other' s  shoulders  and 
under  each  other  s  arms.  Disappoint- 
ment begins  to  manifest  itself .^ 

Sibyl  {not  quite  knowing  why  she  and 
others  are  disappointed^.  But  you  showed  us 
this  the  other  day. 

L.  Yes  ;  but  you  would  not  look  at  it  the 
other  day. 

Sibyl.  But  was  all  that  fine  dream  only 
about  this  t 

L.  What  finer  thing  could  a  dream  be 
about  than  this  .?  It  is  small,  if  you  will  ; 
but  when  you  begin  to  think  of  things 
rightly,  the  ideas  of  smallness  and  largeness 
pass  away.  The  making  of  this  pyramid 
was  in  reality  just  as  wonderful  as  the  dream 
I  have  been  telling  you,  and  just  as  incom- 
prehensible. It  was  not,  I  suppose,  as 
swift,  but  quite  as  grand  things  are  done 
as  swiftly.  When  Neith  makes  crystals  of 
snow  it  needs  a  great  deal  more  marshaling 
of  the  atoms,  by  her  flaming  arrows,  than  it 
•does  to  make  crystals  like  this  one  ;  and  that 
is  done  in  a  moment. 

Egypt.  But  how  you  do  puzzle  us  !  Why 
do  you  say  Neith  does  it }  You  don't  mean 
that  she  is  a  real  spirit,  do  you  ? 


42  XTbe  ismcB  of  tbe  Duet, 

L.  What  /mean,  is  of  little  consequence^ 
What  the  Egyptians  meant,  who  called  her 
'*Neith," — or  Homer,  who  called  her  "Athe- 
na,"— or  Solomon,  who  called  her  by  a  word 
which  the  Greeks  render  as  '^Sophia,"  you 
must  judge  for  yourselves.  But  her  testi- 
mony is  always  the  same,  and  all  nations 
have  received  it:  ''I  was  by  Him  as  one 
brought  up  with  Him,  and  I  was  daily  His 
delight ;  rejoicing  in  the  habitual  parts  of  the 
earth,  and  my  delights  were  with  the  sons  of 
men. " 

Mary.  But  is  not  that  only  a  personifica- 
tion ? 

L.  If  it  be,  what  will  you  gain  by  unper- 
sonifying  it,  or  what  right  have  you  to  da 
so.f^  Cannot  you  accept  the  image  given 
you,  in  its  life ;  and  listen,  like  children,  to 
the  words  which  chiefly  belong  to  you  as 
children  :  ^'I  love  them  that  love  me,  and 
those  that  seek  me  early  shall  find  me"  ? 

{TJiey  are  all  quiet  for  a  minute  or  two  ; 
questions  begin  to  appear  in  their  eyes.) 

I  cannot  talk  to  you  any  more  to-day. 
Take  that  rose-crystal  away  with  you,  and 
think 


LECTURE  3. 

THE  CRYSTAL  LIFE. 


LECTURE  III. 

THE  CRYSTAL  LIFE, 

A  very  dull  Lecture^  willfully  brought  upon  themselves  by 
the  elder  children.  Some  of  the  young  ones  have,  how- 
ever, managed  to  get  in  by  mistake.  Scene,  the  school- 
room, 

L.  So  I  am  to  stand  up  here  merely  to  be 
asked  questions,  to-day,  Miss  Mary,  am  I  ? 

Mary.  Yes;  and  you  t.mus|  answer  them 
plainly  ;  without  telling  us  any  more  stories. 
You  are  quite  spoiling  the  children  :  the  poor 
Jittle  things'  heads  are  turning  round  like 
kaleidoscopes  ;  and  they  don't  know  in  the 
least  what  you  mean.  Nor  do  we  old  ones 
either,  for  that  matter :  to-day  you  must 
really  tell  us  nothing  but  facts. 

L.  I  am  sworn  ;  l3ut  you  won't  like  it  a 
bit. 

Mary.  Now,  first  of  all,  what  do  you  mean 
by  ''bricks''  .? — Are  the  smallest  particles  of 
minerals  all  of  some  accurate  shape,  like 
bricks  .'* 

L.  I  do  not  know,  Miss  Mary  ;  I  do  not 
even  know  if  anybody  knows.  The  small- 
est atoms  which  are  visibly  and  practically 
put  together  to   make   large   crystals,  may 

45 


46  Zbc  JBtbice  ot  tbc  Dust, 

better  be  described  as  *' limited  in  fixed  direc- 
tions "  than  as  *'  of  fixed  forms."  But  I  can 
"tell  you  nothing  clear  about  ultimate  atoms  ; 
you  will  find  the  idea  of  little  bricks,  or,  per- 
haps, of  little  spheres,  available  for  all  the 
uses  you  will  have  to  put  it  to. 

Mary.  Well,  it's  very  provoking  ;  one 
seems  always  to  be  stopped  just  when  one 
is  coming  to  the  very  thing  one  wants  to 
Icnow. 

L.  No,  Mary,  for  we  should  not  wish  to 
know  anything  but  what  is  easily  and  as- 
suredly knowable.  There's  no  end  to  it. 
If  I  could  show  you,  or  myself,  a  group  of 
ultimate  atoms,  quite  clearly,  in  this  magni- 
fying glass,  we  should  both  be  presently 
A^exed  because  we  could  not  break  them  in 
two  pieces,  and  s^e  their  insides. 

Mary.  Well,  then,  next,  what  do  you  mean 
by  the  flying  of  the  bricks  ?  V/hat  is  it  the 
atoms  do,  that  is  like  flying  ? 

L.  When  they  are  dissolved,  or  un crystal- 
lized, they  are  really  separated  from  each 
other,  like  a  swarm  of  gnats  in  the  air,  or 
like  a  shoal  of  fish  in  the  sea  ; — generally  at 
about  equal  distances.  In  currents  of  solu- 
tions, or  at  different  depths  of  them,  one 
part  may  be  more  full  of  the  dissolved 
atoms  than  another ;  but  on  the  whole,  you 
may  think  of  them  as  equidistant,  like  the 
spots  in  the  print  of  your  gown.  If  they  are 
separated  by  force  of  heat  only,  the  sub- 
stance is  said  to  be  melted ;  if  they  are  sep- 


TLhc  Crystal  %itc.  47 

arated  by  any  other  substance,  as  particles 
of  sugar  by  water,  they  are  said  to  be  "  dis- 
solved." Note  this  distinction  carefully,  all 
of  you. 

Bora.  I  will  be  very  particular.  When 
next  you  tell  me  there  isn't  sugar  enough  in 
your  tea,  I  will  say,  "  It  is  not  yet  dissolved, 
sir." 

L.- 1  tell  you  what  shall  be  dissolved.  Miss 
Dora  ;  and  that's  the  present  parliament,  if 
the  members  get  too  saucy. 

(Dora  folds    Iter  hands  and  casts  down 
her  eyes.) 

L.  {proceeds  in  stale).  Now,  Miss  Mary, 
you  know  already,  I  believe,  that  nearly 
everything  will  melt,  under  a  sufficient  heat, 
like  wax.  Limestone  melts  (under  pressure) ; 
sand  melts;  granite  melts;  the  lava  of  a 
volcano  is  a  mixed  mass  of  many  kinds  of 
rocks,  melted  :  and  any  melted  substance 
nearly  always,  if  not  ahvays,  crystallizes  as 
it  cools  ;  the  more  slov/ly  the  more  perfect- 
ly. Water  melts  at  v/hat  we  call  the,  freez- 
ing, but  might  just  as  wisely,  though  not  as 
conveniently,  call  the  melting,  point  ;  and 
radiates  as  it  cools  into  the  most  beautiful 
of  all  known  crystals.  Glass  melts  at  a 
greater  heat,  and  will  crystallize,  if  you  will 
let  it  cool  slowly  enough,  in  stars,  much 
like  snow.  Gold  needs  more  heat  to  melt 
it,  but  crystallizes  also  exquisitely,  as  I  will 
presently  show  you.  Arsenic  and  sulphur 
crystallizes  from  their  vapors.     Now  in  any 


48  Zbc  :etblc6  ot  tbc  WneU 

of  these  cases,  either  of  melted,  dissolved,  or 
vaporous  bodies,  the  particles  are  usually- 
separated  from  each  other,  either  by  heat 
or  by  an  intermediate  substance  ;  and  in 
crystallizing  they  are  both  brought  nearer 
to  each  other,  and  packed,  so  as  to  fit  as 
closely  as  possible  :  the  essential  part  of 
the  business  being  not  the  bringing  together, 
but  the  packing.  Who  packed  your  trunk 
for  you,  last  holidays,  Isabel  ? 

Isabel.    Lily  does,  always. 

L.  And  how  much  can  you  allow  for 
Lily's  good  packing,  in  guessing  what  will 
go  into  the  trunk.? 

Isabel.  Oh  I  I  bring  twice  as  much  as  the 
trunk  holds.    Lily  always  gets  everything  in. 

Lily.  Ah  !  but,  Isey,  if  you  only  knew 
what  a  time  it  takes  !  and  since  youVe  had 
those  great  hard  buttons  on  your  frocks,  I 
can't  do  anything  with  them.  Buttons 
won't  go  anywhere,  you  know. 

L.  Yes,  Lily,  it  would  be  well  if  she  only 
knew  what  a  time  it  takes  ;  and  I  wish  any 
of  us  knew  what  a  time  crystallization  takes, 
for  that  is  consummately  fine  packing.  The 
particles  of  the  rock  are  thrown  down,  just 
as  Isabel  brings  her  things — in  a  heap  ;  and 
innumerable  Lilies,  not  of  the  valley,  but  of 
the  rock,  come  to  pack  them.  But  it  takes 
such  a  time  ! 

However,  the  best — out  and  out  the  best 
— way  of  understanding  the  thing,  is  to  crys- 
tallize yourselves. 


C^bc  Crystal  %itc.  49 

The  Audience.   Ourselves  1 

L.  Yes  ;  not  merely  as  you  did  the  other 
day,  carelessly  on  the  schoolroom  forms ; 
but  carefully  and  finely,  out  in  the  play- 
ground. You  can  play  at  crystallizatioa 
there  as  much  as  you  please. 

Kathleen  a7td  Jessie.    Oh!  how.'^ — how.? 

L.  First  you  must  put  yourselves  together 
as  close  as  you  can,  in  the  middle  of  the 
grass,  and  form  for  first  practice,  any  figure 
you  like. 

Jessie.   Any  dancing  figure,  do  you  mean  ? 

L.  No  ;  I  mean  a  square,  or  a  cross,  or 
a  diamond.  Any  figure  you  like,  standing 
close  together.  You  had  better  outline  it 
first  on  the  turf,  with  sticks,  or  pebbles,  so 
as  to  see  that  it  is  rightly  drawn  ;  then  get 
into  it  and  enlarge  or  diminish  it  at  one  side, 
till  you  are  all  quite  in  it,  and  no  empty 
space  left. 

Dora.   Crinoline  and  all  ? 

L.  The  crinoline  may  stand  eventually 
for  rough  crystalline  surface,  unless  you  pin 
it  in  ;  and  then  you  may  make  a  polished 
crystal  of  yourselves. 

Lily.    Oh,  we'll  pin  it  in — we'll  pin  it  in  I 

L.  Then,  when  you  are  all  in  the  figure, 
let  every  one  note  her  place,  and  who  is 
next  her  on  each  side  ;  and  let  the  outsiders 
count  how  many  places  they  stand  from  the 
corners. 

Kathleen.   Yes,  yes, — and  then  .? 

L.  Then  you  must  scatter  all  over  the 
4 


50  tibe  JBtbics  ot  tbe  'DneU 

playground — right  over  it  from  side  to  side, 
and  end  to  end  ;  and  put  yourselves  all  at 
equal  distances  from  each  other,  everywhere. 
You  needn't  mind  doing  it  very  accurately, 
but  so  as  to  be  nearly  equidistant  ;  not  less 
than  about  three  yards  apart  from  each  other 
on  every  side. 

Jessie.  We  can  easily  cut  pieces  of  string 
of  equal  length,  to  hold.      And  then  ? 

L.  Then,  at  a  given  signal,  let  everybody 
walk,  at  the  same  rate,  towards  the  outlined 
figure  in  the  middle.  You  had  better  sing 
as  you  walk ;  that  will  keep  you  in  good 
time.  And  as  you  close  in  towards  it,  let 
each  take  her  place,  and  the  next  comers  fit 
themselves  in  beside  the  first  ones,  till  you 
are  all  in  the  figure  again. 

Kathleen.  Oh  !  how  we  shall  run  against 
each  other.      What  fun  it  will  be  ! 

L.  No,  no,  ]\Iiss Katie;  I  can't  allow  any 
running  against  each  other.  The  atoms 
never  do  that,  v/hatever  human  creatures 
do.  You  must  all  know  your  places,  and 
find  your  way  to  them  without  jostling. 

Lily.   But  how  ever  shall  we  do  that  ? 

Isabel.  Mustn't  the  ones  in  the  middle  be 
the  nearest,  and  the  outside  ones  farther  off 
— when  we  go  away  to  scatter,  I  mean  ? 

L.  Yes  ;  you  must  be  very  careful  to  keep 
your  order  ;  you  will  soon  find  out  hovv^  to 
do  it  ;  it  is  only  like  soldiers  forming  square, 
except  that  each  must  standstill  in  her  place 
as  she  reaches  it,  and  the  others  come  round 


1Z\)C  Cri26tal  %itc.  51 

Ler ;  and  you  will  have  much  more  com- 
plicated figures,  afterwards  to  form,  than 
squares. 

Isabel.  I'll  put  a  stone  at  my  place  :  then 
I  shall  know  it. 

L.  You  might  each  nail  a  bit  of  paper  to 
the  turf,  at  your  place,  with  your  name  up- 
on it  :  but  it  would  be  of  no  use,  for  if  you 
don't  know  your  places,  you  will  make  a 
iine  piece  of  business  of  it,  while  you  are 
looking  for  your  names.  And,  Isabel,  if  with 
a  little  head  and  eyes,  and  a  brain  (all  of 
them  very  good  and  serviceable  of  their  kind, 
as  such  things  go),  you  think  you  cannot 
know  your  place,  without  a  stone  at  it,  after 
examining  it  well, — how  do  you  think  each 
atom  knows  its  place,  when  it  never  was 
there  before,  and  there's  no  stone  at  it  ? 

Isabel.  But  does  every  atom  know  its 
place  ? 

L.   How  else  could  it  get  there  ? 

Mary.  Are  they  not  attracted  into  their 
places  ? 

L.  Cover  a  piece  of  paper  with  spots,  at 
equal  intervals  ;  and  then  imagine  any  kind 
of  attraction  you  choose,  or  any  law  of  at- 
traction, to  exist  between  the  spots,  and  try 
how,  on  that  permitted  supposition,  you  can 
attract  them  into  the  figure  of  a  Maltese 
cross,  in  the  middle  of  the  paper. 

Mary  {having  tried  if).  Yes  ;  I  see  that  I 
cannot  : — one  would  need  all  kinds  of  at- 
tractions,   in    different    ways,    at    different 


52  Zbc  jetblC6  of  tbc  Du6t» 

places.  But  you  do  not  mean  that  the  atoms 
are  alive  ? 

L.   What  is  it  to  be  alive  ? 

Dora.  There  now  ;  you're  going  to  be 
provoking,  I  know. 

L.  I  do  not  see  why  it  should  be  provok- 
ing to  be  asked  what  it  is  to  be  alive.  Do 
you  think  you  don't  know  w^hether  you  are 
alive  or  not.^* 

(Isabel  skips  to  the  end  of  ill e  room  and 
hack. ) 

L.  Yes,  Isabel,  that's  all  very  fine  ;  and 
you  and  I  may  call  that  being  alive  :  but  a 
modern  philosopher  calls  it  being  in  a 
"mood  of  motion."  It  requires  a  certain 
quantity  of  heat  to  take  you  to  the  side- 
board ;  and  exactly  the  same  quantity  ta 
bring  you  back  again.     That's  all. 

Isabel.  No,  it  isn't.  And  besides,  I'm  not 
hot. 

L.  I  am,  sometimes,  at  the  way  they  talk. 
However,  you  know,  Isabel,  you  might  have 
been  a  particle  of  a  mineral,  and  yet  have 
been  carried  round  the  room,  or  anywhere 
else,  by  chemical  forces,  in  the  liveliest  way. 

Isabel.  Yes  ;  but  I  wasn't  carried  :  I  car- 
ried myself. 

L.  The  fact  is,  mousie,  the  difficulty  is- 
not  so  much  to  say  what  makes  a  thing 
alive,  as  what  makes  it  a  Self.  As  soon  as 
you  are  shut  off  from  the  rest  of  the  universe 
into  a  Self,  you  begin  to  be  alive. 


tibe  Cri36tal  %itc.  53 

Violet  {indginanf).  Oh,  surely — surely 
that  cannot  be  so.  Is  not  all  the  life  of  the 
soul  in  communion,  not  separation  ? 

L.  There  can  be  no  communion  where 
there  is  no  distinction.  But  we  shall  be  in 
an  abyss  of  metaphysics  presently,  if  we 
don't  look  out ;  and  besides,  we  must  not  be 
too  grand,  to-day,  for  the  younger  children. 
We'll  be  grand,  some  day,  by  ourselves,  if 
we  must.  {^The  younger  children  are  not 
pleased^  and  prepare  to  remonstrate  ;  but  know- 
ing by  experience,  that  all  conversations  in 
lohich  the  word  ^^ communion"  occurs,  are 
^inintelligible,  thi7ik  better  o/it.)  Meantime, 
for  broad  answer  about  the  atoms.  I  do  not 
think  we  should  use  the  word  "  life,"  of  any 
energy  which  does  not  belong  to  a  given 
form.  A  seed,  or  an  egg,  or  a  young  animal, 
are  properly  called  ''alive"  with  respect  to 
the  force  belonging  to  those  forms,  which 
consistently  develops  that  form,  and  no 
other.  But  the  force  which  crystallizes  a 
mineral  appears  to  be  chiefly  external,  and 
it  does  not  produce  an  entirely  determinate 
and  individual  form,  limited  in  size,  but  only 
an  aggregation,  in  which  some  limiting  laws 
must  be  observed. 

Mary.  But  I  do  not  see  much  difference, 
that  way,  between  a  crystal  and  a  tree. 

L.  Add,  then,  that  the  mode  of  the  energy 
in  a  living  thing  implies  a  continual  change 
in  its  elements  ;  and  a  period  for  its  end. 
So  you  may  define  life  by  its  attached  nega- 


54  ^be  iBtl^ice  ot  tbe  5)u6t 

tive,  death  ;  and  still  more  by  its  attached 
positive,  birth.  But  I  won't  be  plagued  any 
more  about  this,  just  now  ;  if  you  choose 
to  think  the  crystals  alive,  do,  and  welcome. 
Rocks  have  always  been  called  ''living"  in 
their  native  place. 

Mary.  There's  one  question  more ;  then 
I've  done. 

L.   Only  one.? 

Mary.    Only  one. 

L.  But  if  it  is  answered  won't  it  turn  into 
two  ? 

Mary.  No  ;  I  think  it  will  remain  single,, 
and  be  comfortable. 

L.    Let  me  hear  it. 

Mary.  You  know,  we  are  to  crystallize 
ourselves  out  of  the  whole  playground. 
Now,  what  playground  have  the  minerals  ? 
Where  are  they  scattered  before  they  are 
crystallized  ;  and  where  are  the  crystals 
generally  made  ? 

L.  That  sounds  to  me  more  like  three 
questions  than  one,  Mary.  If  it  is  only 
one,  it  is  a  wide  one. 

Mary.  I  did  not  say  anything  about  the 
width  of  it 

L.  Well,  I  must  keep  it  within  the  best 
compass  I  can.  When  rocks  either  dry  from 
a  moist  state,  or  cool  from  a  heated  state, 
they  necessarily  alter  in  bulk  ;  and  cracks,  or 
open  spaces,  form  in  them  in  all  directions. 
These  cracks  must  be  filled  up  with  solid 
matter,  or  the   rock   would  eventually    be- 


TLbc  Crystal  %itc.  55 

come  a  ruinous  heap.  So,  sometimes  by 
water,  sometimes  by  vapor,  sometimes  no- 
body knows  how,  crystallizable  matter  is 
brought  from  somewhere,  and  fastens  itself 
in  these  open  spaces,  so  as  to  bind  the  rock 
together  again  with  crystal  cement.  A  vast 
quantity  of  hollows  are  formed  in  lavas  by 
bubbles  of  gas,  just  as  the  holes  are  left  in 
bread  well-baked.  In  process  of  time  these 
cavities  are  generally  filled  with  various 
crystals. 

Mary.  But  where  does  the  crystallizing 
substance  come  from  ? 

L.  Sometimes  out  of  the  rock  itself; 
sometimes  from  below  or  above,  through  the 
veins.  The  entire  substance  of  the  contract- 
ing rock  may  be  filled  with  liquid,  pressed 
into  it  so  as  to  fill  every  pore  ; — or  with 
mineral  vapor ; — or  it  may  be  so  charged  at 
one  place,  and  empty  at  another.  There's 
no  end  to  the  ''may  he's.'"'  But  all  that  you 
need  fancy,  for  our  present  purpose,  is  that 
hollows  in  the  rocks,  like  the  caves  in  Derby- 
shire, are  traversed  by  liquids  or  vapor  con- 
taining certain  elements  in  a  more  or  less 
free  or  separate  state,  which  crystallize  on 
the  cave  walls. 

Sibyl.  There  now  ; — Mary  has  had  all  her 
questions  answered ;  it's  my  turn  to  have 
mine. 

L.  Ah,  there's  a  conspiracy  among  you,  I 
see.      I  might  have  guessed  as  much. 

Dora.   I'm    sure    you    ask   us    questions 


56  ITbe  lBtbiC6  of  tbc  Bust. 

enough  !  How  can  you  have  the  heart, 
when  you  dislike  so  to  be  asked  them  your- 
self? 

L.  My  dear  child,  if  people  do  not  answer 
questions,  it  does  not  matter  how  many 
they  are  asked,  because  they've  no  trouble 
with  them.  Now,  when  I  ask  you  questions, 
I  never  expect  to  be  answered  ;  but  when 
you  ask  me,  you  always  do  ;  and  it's  not  fair. 

Dora.  Very  well,  we  shall  understand, 
next  time. 

Sibyl.  No,  but  seriously,  we  all  want  to 
ask  one  thing-  more,  quite  dreadfully. 

L.  And  1  don't  want  to  be  asked  it,  quite 
dreadfully  ;  but  you'll  have  your  own  way, 
of  course. 

SicYL.  We  none  of  us  understand  about 
the  lower  Pthah.  It  was  not  merely  yester- 
day ;  but  in  all  we  have  read  about  him  in 
Wilkinson,  or  in  any  book,  we  cannot  un- 
derstand what  the  Egyptians  put  their  god 
into  that  ugly  little  deformed  shape  for. 

L.  Well,  Tm  glad  it's  that  sort  of  ques- 
tion ;  because  I  can  answer  anything  I  like 
to  that. 

Egytt.  Anything  you  like  will  do  quite 
well  for  us  ;  we  shall  be  pleased  with  the 
answer,  if  you  are. 

L.  I  am  not  so  sure  of  that,  most  gracious 
queen  ;  for  1  must  begin  by  the  statement 
that  queens  seem  to  have  disliked  all  sorts 
of  work,  in  those  days,  as  much  as  some 
queens  dislike  sewing  to-day. 


Egypt.  Now,  it's  too  bad  !  and  just  when 
I  was  trying  to  say  the  civilest  thing  I 
could  ! 

L.  But,  Egypt,  why  did  you  tell  me  you 
disliked  sewing  so  ? 

Egypt.  Did  not  I  show  you  how  the  thread 
cuts  my  fingers  ?  and  I  always  get  cramp, 
somehow,  in  my  neck,  if  I  sew  long. 

L.  Well,  I  suppose  the  Egyptian  queens 
thought  everybody  got  cramp  in  their  neck, 
if  they  sewed  long  ;  and  that  thread  always 
cut  people's  fingers.  At  all  events  every 
kind  of  manual  labor  was  despised  both  by 
them,  and  the  Greeks  ;  and,  while  they 
owned  the  real  good  and  fruit  of  it,  they  yet 
held  it  a  degradation  to  all  who  practiced  it. 
Also,  knowing  the  laws  of  life  thoroughly, 
they  perceived  that  the  special  practice 
necessary  to  bring  any  manual  art  to  per- 
fection strengthened  the  body  distortedly  ; 
one  energy  or  member  gaining  at  the  ex- 
pense of  the  rest.  They  especially  dreaded 
and  despised  any  kind  of  work  that  had  to 
be  done  near  fire:  yet  feeling  what  they 
owed  to  it  in  metal-work,  as  the  basis  of  all 
other  work,  they  expressed  this  mixed  rever- 
ence and  scorn  in  the  varied  types  of  the 
lame  Hephaestus,  and  the  lower  Pthah. 

Sibyl.  But  what  did  you  mean  by  making 
him  say  ' '  Everything  great  I  can  make  small, 
and  everything  small  great ''.^^ 

L.  I  had  my  own  separate  meaning  in 
that.     We  have  seen  in  modern  times  the 


58  Zbc  Btbica  ot  tbe  WweU 

power  of  the  lower  Pthah  developed  in  a 
separate  way,  which  no  Greek  nor  Egyptian 
could  have  conceived.  It  is  the  character 
of  pure  and  eyeless  manual  labor  to  con- 
ceive everything  as  subjected  to  it  ;  and  in 
reality  to  disgrace  and  diminish  all  that  is 
so  subjected,  aggrandizing  itself,  and  the 
thought  of  itself,  at  the  expense  of  all  noble 
things.  I  heard  an  orator,  and  a  good  one 
too,  at  the  Working  Men's  College,  the  other 
day,  make  a  great  point  in  a  description  of 
our  railroads  ;  saying,  with  grandly  con- 
ducted emphasis,  ''They  have  made  man 
greater,  and  the  world  less."  His  working 
audience  were  mightily  pleased  ;  they 
thought  it  so  very  fine  a  thing  to  be  made 
bigger  themselves  ;  and  all  the  rest  of  the 
world  less.  I  should  have  enjoyed  asking 
them  (but  it  would  have  been  a  pity — they 
were  so  pleased),  how  much  less  they  would 
like  to  have  the  world  made  ; — and  whether, 
at  present,  those  of  them  really  felt  the  big- 
gest men,  who  lived  in  the  least  houses. 

Sibyl.  But  then,  why  did  you  make  Pthah 
say  that  he  could  make  weak  things  strong, 
and  small  things  great.'* 

L.  My  dear,  he  is  a  boaster  and  self-as- 
sertor,  by  nature  ;  but  it  is  so  far  true.  For 
instance,  we  used  to  have  a  fair  in  our 
neighborhood — a  very  fine  fair  we  thought  it. 
You  never  saw  such  an  one  ;  but  if  you  look 
at  the  engraving  of  Turner's  "St  Catherine's 
Hill,"  you  will  see  what  it  was  like.     There 


XTbc  (Br^etal  %itc.  59 

were  curious  booths,  carried  on  poles  ;  and 
peep-shows  ;  and  music,  withplenty  of  drums 
and  cymbals  ;  and  much  barley-sugar  and 
ginger  bread,  and  the  like  :  and  in  the  alleys. 
of  this  fair  the  London  populace  would  enjoy 
themselves,  after  their  fashion,  very  thor- 
oughly. Well,  the  little  Pthah  set  to  work 
upon  it  one  day  ;  he  make  the  wooden  poles 
into  iron  ones,  and  put  them  across,  like  his 
own  crooked  legs,  so  that  you  always  fall 
over  them  if  you  don't  look  where  you  are 
going  ;  and  he  turned  all  the  canvas  into 
panes  of  glass,  and  put  it  up  on  his  iron 
cross-poles  ;  and  made  all  the  little  booths 
into  one  great  booth  ; — and  people  said  it 
was  very  tine,  and  a  new  style  of  architec- 
ture ;  and  Mr.  Dickens  said  nothing  was 
ever  like  it  in  Fairy-land,  which  was  very 
true.  And  then  the  little  Pthah  set  to  work 
to  put  fine  fairings  in  it ;  and  he  painted  the 
Nineveh  bulls  afresh,  with  the  blackest  eyes 
he  could  paint  (because  he  had  none  him- 
self), and  he  got  the  angels  down  from 
Lincoln  choir,  and  gilded  their  wings  like 
his  gingerbread  of  old  times ;  and  he  sent 
for  everything  else  he  could  think  of,  and 
put  it  in  his  booth.  There  are  the  casts  of 
Niobe  and  her  children  ;  and  the  Chim- 
panzee ;  and  the  wooden  Caffres  and  New- 
Zealanders  ;  and  the  Shakespeare  House  ; 
and  Le  Grand  Blondin,  and  Le  Petit  Blondin  ; 
and  Handel  ;  and  Mozart ;  and  no  end  of 
shops,  and  buns,  and  beer  ;  and  all  the  little- 


6o  tTbe  Btbica  ot  tbe  Bust^ 

Pthah-worshippers  say,  never  was  anything 
so  sublime  ! 

Sibyl.  Now,  do  you  mean  to  say  you 
never  go  to  these  Crystal  Palace  concerts  ; 
they're  as  good  as  good  can  be. 

L.  I  don't  go  to  the  thundering  things 
with  a  million  of  bad  voices  in  them.  When 
I  want  a  song,  I  get  Julia  Mannering  and 
Lucy  Bertram  and  Counselor  Pleydell  to 
sing  *'Webe  three  poor  Mariners"  to  me  ; 
then  I've  no  headache  next  morning.  But 
I  do  go  to  the  smaller  concerts,  when  I  can  ; 
for  they  are  very  good,  as  you  say,  Sibyl : 
and  I  always  get  a  reserved  seat  somewhere 
near  the  orchestra,  where  I  am  sure  I  can 
.see  the  kettle-drummer  drum. 

Sibyl.   Now  do  be  serious,  for  one  minute. 

L.  I  am  serious — never  was  more  so. 
You  know  one  can't  see  the  modulation  of 
violinists'  fingers,  but  one  can  see  the  vibra- 
tion of  the  drummer's  hand  :  and  it's  lovely. 

Sibyl.  But  fancy  going  to  a  concert,  not 
to  hear,  but  to  see  ! 

L.  Yes,  it  is  very  absurd.  The  quite 
right  thing,  I  believe,  is  to  go  there  to  talk. 
I  confess,  however,  that  in  most  music, 
when  very  well  done,  the  doing  of  it  is  to 
me  the  chiefly  interesting  part  of  the  busi- 
ness. I'm  always  thinking  how  good  it 
would  be  for  the  fat,  supercilious  people, 
who  care  so  little  for  their  half-crown's  worth, 
io  be  set  to  try  and  do  a  half-crowns  worth 
of  anything  like  it. 


Zbc  Crystal  %itc.  6r 

Mary.  But  surely  that  Crystal  Palace  is  a 
great  good  and  help  to  the  people  of  Lon- 
don ? 

L.  The  fresh  air  of  the  Norwood  hills  is, 
or  was,  my  dear  ;  but  they  are  spoiling  that 
with  smoke  as  fast  as  they  can.  And  the 
palace  (as  they  call  it)  is  a  better  place  for 
them,  by  much,  than  the  old  fair ;  and  it  is 
always  there,  instead  of  for  three  days  only  ; 
and  it  shuts  up  at  proper  hours  of  night. 
And  good  use  may  be  made  of  the  things  in 
it,  if  you  know  how  :  but  as  for  its  teaching 
the  people,  it  will  teach  them  nothing  but 
the  lowest  of  the  lower  Pthah's  work — noth- 
ing but  hammer  and  tongs.  I  saw  a  won- 
derful piece  of  his  doing  in  the  place,  only 
the  other  day.  Some  unhappy  metal-worker 
— I  am  not  sure  if  it  was  not  a  metal-work- 
ing firm — had  taken  three  years  to  make  a 
Golden  eagle. 

Sibyl.   Of  real  gold  ? 

L.  No  ;  of  bronze,  or  copper,  or  some  of 
their  foul  patent  metals — it  is  no  matter 
what.  I  meant  a  model  of  our  chief  British 
eagle.  Every  feather  was  made  separately  ; 
and  every  filament  of  every  feather  sepa- 
rately, and  so  joined  on  ;  and  all  the  quills 
modeled  of  the  right  length  and  right  sec- 
tion, and  at  last  the  whole  cluster  of  them 
fastened  together.  You  know,  children,  I 
don't  think  much  of  my  own  drawing  ;  but 
take  my  proud  word  for  once,  that  when  I 
go  to  the  Zoological  Gardens,  and  happen 


62  Cbc  }EtbiC5  ot  tbc  5)U6L 

to  have  a  bit  of  chalk  in  my  pocket,  and  the 
Gray  Harpy  will  sit,  without  screwing  his 
head  round,  for  thirty  seconds, — I  can  do  a 
better  thing  of  him  in  that  time  than  the 
three  years'  work  of  this  industrious  firm. 
For,  during  the  thirty  seconds,  the  eagle  is 
my  object, — not  myself;  and  during  the 
three  years,  the  firm's  object,  in  every  fiber 
of  bronze  it  made,  was  itself,  and  not  the 
eagle.  That  is  the  true  meaning  of  the  little 
Pthahs  having  no  eyes — he  can  see  only 
himself.  The  Egyptian  beetle  was  not  quite 
the  full  type  of  him  ;  our  northern  ground 
beetle  is  a  truer  one.  It  is  beautiful  to  see 
it  at  work,  gathering  its  treasures  (such  as 
Ihey  are)  into  little  round  balls  ;  and  push- 
ing them  home  with  the  strong  wrong  end 
of  it, — head  downmost  all  the  way, — -like  a 
modern  political  economist  with  his  ball  of 
capital,  declaring  that  a  nation  can  stand  on 
its  vices  better  than  on  its  virtues.  But 
away  with  you,  children,  now,  for  I'm  get- 
ting cross. 

l3oRA.  I'm  going  downstairs  ;  I  shall  take 
care,  at  any  rate,  that  there  are  no  little 
Pthahs  in  the  kitchen  cupboards. 


LECTURE  4. 

THE  CRYSTAL  ORDERS. 


LECTURE  IV. 

THE  CRYSTAL  ORDERS. 

A  working  Lecture  in  the  large  Schoolroom  ;  with  ex- 
perimental Interludes.  The  great  bell  has  rung  un- 
expectedly, 

Kathleen  {entering  disconsolate,  though 
first  at  the  summons^.  Oh  dear,  oh  dear,  what 
a  day  !  Was  ever  anything  so  provoking  ! 
just  when  we  wanted  to  crystallize  ourselves; 
— and  I'm  sure  it's  going  to  rain  all  day  long. 

L.   So  am  I,  Kate.      The  sky  has  quite  an 
Irish  way  with  it.      But  I  don't  see  why  Irish  | 
girls   should   also    look  so    dismal.      Fancy  i 
that  you  don't  want  to  crystallize  yourselves  : 
you  didn't,  the    day  before    yesterda)^,   and 
you  were  not  unhappy  when  it  rained  then. 

Florrie.  Ah  !  but  we  do  want  to-day  ; 
and  the  rain's  so  tiresome. 

L.  That  is  to  say,  children,  that  because 
you  are  all  the  richer  by  the  expectation  of 
playing  at  a  new  game,  you  choose  to  make 
yourselves  unhappier  than  when  you  had 
nothing  to  look  forward  to,  but  the  old  ones. 

Isabel.  But  then,  to  have  to  wait — wait 
— wait ;  and  before  we've  tried  it  ; — and  per- 
haps it  will  rain  to-morrow,  too  ! 

5  6S 


66  XLbc  JStbice  of  the  Bust* 

L.  It  may  also  rain  the  day  after  to- 
morrow. We  can  make  ourselves  uncom- 
fortable to  any  extent  with  perhapses,  Isabel. 
You  may  stick  perhapses  into  your  little 
minds,  like  pins,  till  you  are  as  uncomfort- 
able as  the  Lilliputians  made  Gulliver  with 
their  arrows,  when  he  would  not  lie  quiet. 

Isabel.   But  what  are  we  to  do  to-day  ? 

L.  To  be  quiet,  for  one  thing,  like  Gulli- 
ver when  he  saw  there  was  nothing  better  to 
be  done.  And  to  practice  patience.  I  can 
tell  you,  children,  /ha/  requires  nearly  as 
much  practicing  as  music  ;  and  we  are  con- 
tinually losing  our  lessons  when  the  master 
comes.  Now,  to-day,  here's  a  nice,  little 
adagio  lesson  for  us,  if  we  play  it  properly. 

Isabel.  But  I  don't  like  that  sort  of  les- 
son.     I  can't  play  it  properly. 

L.  Can  you  play  a  Mozart  sonata  yet, 
Isabel  ?  The  more  need  to  practice.  All 
one's  life  is  a  music,  if  one  touches  the  notes 
rightly,  and  in  time.  But  there  must  be  no 
hurry. 

Kathleen.  I'm  sure  there's  no  music  in 
stopping  in  on  a  rainy  day. 

L.  There's  no  music  in  a  '^rest,"  Katie, 
that  I  know  of  :  but  there's  the  making  of 
music  in  it.  And  people  are  always  missing 
that  part  of  the  life-melody  ;  and  scrambling 
on  without  counting — not  that  it's  easy  to 
count ;  but  nothing  on  which  so  much  de- 
pends ever  is  easy.  People  are  always  talk- 
ing of  perseverance,  and  courage,  and  forti- 


tilde  ;  but  patience  is  the  finest  and  worthiest  I 
part  of  fortitude, — and  the  rarest,  too.  I 
know  twenty  persevering  girls  for  one  ; 
patient  one  :  but  it  is  only  that  twenty-first 
w"ho  can  do  her  work,  out  and  out,  or  enjoy 
it.  For  patience  lies  at  the  root  of  all  pleas- 
ures, as  well  as  of  all  powers.  Hope  her- 
self ceases  to  be  happiness,  when  Impatience 
companions  her. 

Isabel  and  Lily  stf  down  on  the  floor  a?id 
fold  their  hands.  The  others  follow 
their  example.^ 
Good  children  !  but  that's  not  quite  the 
way  of  it,  neither.  Folded  hands  are  not 
necessarily  resigned  ones.  The  Patience 
who  really  smiles  at  grief  usually  stands,  or 
walks,  or  even  runs  :  she  seldom  sits  ; 
though  she  may  sometimes  have  to  do  it 
for  many  a  day,  poor  thing,  by  monuments  ; 
■or  like  Chaucer's,  ''with  face  pale,  upon  a 
hill  of  sand. "  But  we  are  not  reduced  to  that 
lo-day.  Suppose  we  use  this  calamitous 
forenoon  to  choose  the  shapes  we  are  to 
crystallize  into }  we  know  nothing  about 
them  yet. 

The  pictures  of  resignation  rise  from  the 
floor  not  in  the  patientest  manner.    Gen- 
eral applause. ) 
Mary  (with  one  or  two  others^.     The  very 
thing  we  wanted  to  ask  you  about  ! 

Lily.   We  looked  at  the  books  about  crys- 
tals^ but  they  are  so  dreadful. 


6S  Zbc  JBthiCB  ot  tbe  Du6t 

L.  Well,  Lily,  we  must  go  through  a  little 
dreadfulness,  that's  a  fact  :  no  road  to  any- 
good  knowledge  is  wholly  among  the  lilies 
and  the  grass  ;  there  fs  rough  climbing  to  be 
done  always.  But  the  (l^rystal-books  are  a 
little  /oo  dreadful,  most  of  them,  I  admit  ; 
and  we  shall  have  to  be  content  with  very 
little  of  their  help.  You  know,  as  you  can- 
not stand  on  each  other's  heads,  you  can 
only  make  yourselves  into  the  sections  of 
crystals, — the  figures  they  show  when  they 
are  cut  through  ;  and  we  will  thoose  some 
that  will  be  quite  easy.  You  shall  make 
diamonds  of  yourselves — 

Isabel.  Oh,  no,  no  !  we  won't  be  dia~ 
monds,  please. 

.  L.  Yes,  you  shall,  Isabel ;  they  are  very 
pretty  things,  if  the  jewelers  and  the  kings. 
,and  queens,  would  only  let  them  alone. 
You  shall  make  diamonds  of  yourselves, 
>.  and  rubies  of  yourselves,  and  emeralds  ;  and 
Irish  diamonds  ;  two  of  those — with  Lily  in 
the  middle  of  one,  which  will  be  very 
orderly,  of  course  ;  and  Kathleen  in  the 
middle  of  the  other,  for  which  we  will  hope 
the  best  ;  and  you  shall  make  Derbyshire 
spar  of  yourselves,  and  Iceland  spar,  and 
gold,  and  silver,  and —  Quicksilver  there's 
enough  of  in  you,  without  any  making. 

Mary.  Now,  you  know,  the  children  will 
be  getting  quite  wild  :  we  must  really  get 
pencils  and  paper,  and  begin  properly. 

L.  Wait  a  minute,  Miss  Mary  ;  I  think,   as 


tlbc  Cri26tal  OrDcta.  69 

^veVe  the  schoolroom  clear  to-day,  I'll  try 
to  give  you  some  notion  of  the  three  great 
orders  or  ranks  of  crystals,  into  which  all 
the  others  seem  more  or  less  to  fall.  We 
shall  only  want  one  figure  a  day,  in  the 
playground ;  and  that  can  be  drawn  in  a 
minute :  but  the  general  Ideas  had  better  be 
fastened  first.  I  must  show  you  a  great 
many  minerals  ;  so  lot  me  have  three  tables 
wheeled  into  the  three  windov/s,  that  we 
may  keep  our  specimens  separate  ; — we  will 
keep  the  three  orders  of  crystals  on  separate 
tables. 

(First  Interlude,  0/ pushing  and  pullingy 
and  spreading  of  baize  covers.    Violet, 
7iot  particularly    minding   what  she  is 
about,   gets  herself  jaiiimed  into  a  cor- 
ner,   and  bid  to  stand  out  of  the  way  ; 
on  wJiich  site  devotes   herself  to  medi- 
tation. ) 
Violet  (after  interval  of  meditation^.      How 
strange  it  is  that  everything  seems  to  divide 
into  threes  ! 

L.  Everything  doesn't  divide  into  threes. 
Ivy  won't,  though  shamrock  will ;  and 
daisies  won't,  though  lilies  will. 

Violet.    But  all  the  nicest  things  seem  to 
•divide  into  threes. 
L.   Violets  won't. 

Violet.  No  ;  I  should  think  not,  indeed ! 
But  I  mean  the  great  things. 

L.  I've  always  heard  the  globe  had  four 
quarters. 


70  Zbc  BtbiC6  of  tbe  2)u6t. 

Isabel.  Well  ;  but  you  know  you  said  it 
hadn't  any  quarters  at  all.  So  mayn't  it 
really  be  divided  into  three  ? 

L.  If  it  were  divided  into  no  more  thaa 
three,  on  the  outside  of  it,  Isabel,  it  would 
be  a  fine  world  to  live  in  ;  and  if  it  were 
divided  into  three  in  the  inside  of  it,  it  would 
soon  be  no  world  to  live  in  at  all. 

Dora.  We  shall  never  get  to  the  crystals, 
at  this  rate.  {Aside  /o  Mary.)  He  will  get 
off  into  political  economy  before  we  know 
where  we  are.  {Aloud.)  But  the  crystals, 
are  divided  into  three,  then  ? 

L.  No ;  but  there  are  three  general  no- 
tions by  which  we  may  best  get  hold  of 
them,  Then  between  these  notions  there 
are  other  notions. 

Lily  {alarmed).  A  great  many  1  And 
shall  we  have  to  learn  them  all .? 

L.  More  than  a  great  many — a  quite  in- 
finite many.      So  you  cannot  learn  them  all. 

Lily  {greatly  relieved).  Then  may  we 
only  learn  the  three  ? 

L.  Certainly  ;  unless,  when  you  have  got 
those  three  notions,  you  want  to  have  some 
more  notions  ; — which  would  not  surprise- 
me.  But  we'll  try  for  the  three,  first.  Katie, 
you  broke  your  coral  necklace  this  morn- 
ing ? 

Kathleen.  Oh  !  who  told  you }  It  was  in 
jumping.      I'm  so  sorry  ! 

L.  I'm  very  glad.  Can  you  fetch  me  the 
beads  of  it  ? 


,    Kathleen.   I've  lost  some ;  here   are  the 
rest  in  my  pocket,  if  I  can  only  get  them  out. 
L.   You  mean  to  get  them    out  some  day, 
I  suppose  ;  so.  try  now.      I  want  them. 

(Kathleen  empties  her  pocket  o?i  the 
-floor.  TJie  beads  disperse.  The  School 
disperses  also.  Second  Interlude — 
hunting  piece. ) 

L.  (after  ivaiting  patiently  for  a  quarter  of 
an  hour,  to  Isabel,  who  comes  up  from  under 
the  table  with  her  hair  all  about  her  ears  and 
the  last  findable  beads  in  her  hand).  Mice 
are  useful  little  things  sometimes.  Now,  • 
mousie,  I  want  all  those  beads  crystallized. 
How  many  ways  are  there  of  putting  them 
in  order.? 

Isabel.  Well,  first  one  would  string  them, 
I  suppose .? 

L.  Yes,  that's  the  first  way.  You  cannot 
string  ultimate  atoms  ;  but  you  can  put  them 
in  a  row,  and  then  they  fasten  themselves 
together,  somehow,  into  a  long  rod  or 
needle.  We  will  call  these  ' '  iV^^^i/e-crystals. " 
What  would  be  the  next  way } 

Isabel.  I  suppose,  as  we  are  to  get  to- 
gether in  the  playground,  when  it  stops 
raining,  in  different  shapes  } 

L.  Yes  ;  put  the  beads  together,  then,  in 
the  simplest  form  you  can,  to  begin  with. 
Put  them  into  a  square,  and  pack  them  close. 

Isabel  {after  careful  endeavor ).  I  can't 
get  them  closer. 


72  ^be 'BtB^s'ot  tbe  2)ust. 

L.  That  will  do.  Now  you  may  see,  be- 
forehand, that  if  you  try  to  throw  yourselves 
into  square  in  this  confused  way,  you  will 
never  know  your  places  ;  so  you  had  better 
consider  every  square  as  made  of  rods,  put 
side  by  side.  Take  four  beads  of  equal  size, 
first,  Isabel ;  put  them  into  a  little  square. 
That  you  may  consider  as  made  up  of  two 
rods  of  two  beads  each.  Then  you  can 
make  a  square  a  size  larg-er,  out  of  three  rods 
of  three.  Then  the  next  square  may  be  a 
size  larg-cr.      IIov/  many  rods,  Lily  ? 

Lily.  Four  rods  of  four  beads*  each,  I 
suppose. 

L.  Yes,  and  then  five  rods  of  five,  and 
so  on.  But  now,  look  here  ;  make  another 
square  of  four  beads  again.  You  see  they 
leave  a  little  opening-  in  the  center. 

Isabel.    {^piLshijig  two  opposite  ones  closer  \ 
together).      Now  they  don't. 

L.    No  ;  but    now   it   isn't  a  square ;    and 
by    pushing    the   two    together    you    have  I 
pushed  the  two  others  farther  apart. 

Isabel.  And  yet,  somehow,  they  all  seem 
closer  than  they  were  ! 

L.  Yes  ;  for  before,  each  of  them  only  i 
touched  two  of  the  others,  but  now  each  of  j 
the  two  in  the  middle  touches  the  other 
three.  Take  away  one  of  the  outsiders, 
Isabel  ;  now  you  have  three  in  a  triangle — 
the  smallest  triangle  you  can  make  out  of 
the  beads.  Now  put  a  rod  of  three  beads 
on  at  one  side.     So,  you  have  a  triangle  of 


six  beads  ;  but  just  the  shape  of  the  first 
one.  Next  a  rod  of  four  on  the  side  of 
that ;  and  you  have  a  triangle  of  ten  beads  : 
then  a  rod  of  five  on  the  side  of  that  ;  and 
you  have  a  triangle  of  fifteen.  Thus  you 
have  a  square  with  five  beads  on  the  side, 
and  a  triangle  with  five  beads  on  the  side  ; 
■equal-sided,  therefore,  like  the  square.  So, 
bowevcr  few  or  many  you  may  be,  you 
may  soon  learn  how  to  crystallize  quickly  into 
these  tv/o  figures,  which  are  the  foundation 
of  form  in  the  commonest,  and  therefore 
actually  the  most  important  as  well  as  in 
the  rarest,  and  therefore,  by  our  esteem,  the 
most  important  minerals  of  the  world. 
Look  at  this  in  my  hand. 

Violet.   Why,  it  is  leaf  gold  1 

L.  Yes  ;  but  beaten  by  no  man's  ham- 
mer, or  rather,  not  beaten  at  all,  but  woven. 
Besides,  feel  the  weight  of  it.  There  is  gold 
■enough  there  to  gild  the  walls  and  ceiling, 
if  it  were  beaten  thin. 

Violet.  How  beautiful  !  And  it  glitters 
like  a  leaf  covered  with  frost. 

L.  You  only  think  it  so  beautiful  because 
y^ou  know  it  is  gold.  It  is  not  prettier,  in 
reality,  than  a  bit  of  brass  :  for  it  is  Transyl- 
vanian  gold  ;  and  they  say  there  is  a  foolish 
gnome  in  the  mines  there,  who  is  always 
wanting  to  live  in  the  moon,  and  so  alloys 
all  the  gold  with  a  little  silver.  I  don't 
know  how  that  may  be  ;  but  the  silver 
always  is  in  the  gold ;  and  if  he  does  it,  it's 


74  ^bc  iBtbics  of  tbc  2)U5t» 

very  provoking  of  him,  for  no  gold  is  woven 
so  fine  anywhere  else. 

Mary  {who  has  bee?i  looking  through  her 
magnifying  glass).  But  this  is  not  woven. 
This  is  all  made  of  little  triangles. 

L.  Say  ' '  patched, "  then,  if  you  must  be 
so  particular.  But  if  you  fancy  all  those 
triangles,  small  as  they  are  (and  many  of 
them  are  infinitely  small),  made  up  again  of 
rods,  and  those  of  grains,  as  we  built  our 
great  triangle  of  the  beads,  what  word  will 
you  take  for  the  manufacture  t 

INI  AY.  There's  no  word — it  is  beyond 
words. 

L.  Yes  ;  and  that  would  matter  little, 
were  it  not  beyond  thoughts  too.  But,  at 
all  events,  this  yellow  leaf  of  dead  gold,  shed, 
not  from  the  ruined  woodlands,  but  the 
ruined  rocks,  will  help  you  to  remember  the 
second  kind  of  crystals,  Z^^-cr^^stals,  or 
Foliated  crystals  ;  though  I  show  you  the 
form  in  gold  first  only  to  make  a  strong  im- 
pression on  you,  for  gold  is  not  generally, 
or  characteristically,  crystallized  in  leaves  ; 
the  real  type  of  foliated  crystals  is  this  thing, 
i\Iica  ;  which  if  you  once  feel  well,  and  break 
well,  you  will  always  know  again  ;  and  you 
will  often  have  occasion  to  know  it,  for  you 
will  find  it  everywhere  nearly,  in  hill  coun- 
tries. 

Kathleen.  If  we  break  it  well  !  May  we 
break  W. 

L.    To  powder,  if  you  like. 


Zbc  Crystal  Oxbcte.  75 

{Surrenders  plate  of  brown  mica  to  public 
investigation.  Third  Interlude.  It  sustaifis 
severely  philosophical  treatment  at  all  hands.y 

Florrie  {to  whom  the  last  fragments  have 
descended).  Always  leaves,  and  leaves,  and 
nothing-  but  leaves,  or  white  dust  ? 

L.  That  dust  itself  is  nothing  but  finer 
leaves. 

{Shows  them  to  Florrie  through  magnify- 
ing glass. ) 

Isabel  {peeping  over  Florrie's  shoulder). 
But  then  this  bit  under  the  glass  looks  like 
that  bit  out  of  the  glass  !  If  we  could  break 
this  bit  under  the  glass,  what  would  it  be  like  ? 

L.   It  would  be  all  leaves  still. 

Isabel.    And  then  if  we  broke  those  again  ? 

L.   All  less  leaves  still. 

Isabel  (impatient).  And  if  we  broke  them 
again,  and  again,  and  again,  and  again,  and 
again  ? 

L.  Well,  I  suppose  you  would  come  to  a 
limit,  if  you  could  only  see  it.  Notice  that 
the  little  flakes  already  differ  somewhat  from 
the  large  ones  :  because  I  can  bend  them  up 
and  down,  and  they  stay  bent  ;  while  the 
large  flake,  though  it  bent  easily  a  little  way, 
sprang  back  when  you  let  it  go,  and  broke 
when  you  tried  to  bend  it  far.  And  a  large 
mass  would  not  bend  at  all. 

Mary.  Would  that  leaf  gold  separate  into 
finer  leaves,  in  the  same  way  1 

L.  No ;  and  therefore,  as  I  told  you,  it  is 


76  ^bc  JBtbics  ot  tbc  Dust. 

not  a  characteristic  speciman  of  a  foliated 
crystallization.  The  latter  triangles  are  por- 
tions of  solid  crystals,  and  so  they  are  in 
this,  which  looks  like  a  black  mica  ;  but  you 
see  it  is  made  up  of  triangles  like  the  gold, 
and  stands,  almost  accurately,  as  an  inter- 
mediate link,  in  crystals,  between  mica  and 
^old.  Yet  this  is  the  commonest,  as  gold 
the  rarest,  of  metals. 

jNIary.  Is  it  iron  ?  I  never  saw  iron  so 
bright. 

L.  It  is  rust  of  iron,  finely  crystallized  : 
from  its  resemblance  to  mica,  it  is  often 
called  micaceous  iron. 

Kathleen.    ]\Iay  we  break  this,  too  ? 

L.  No,  fori  could  not  easily  get  such  an- 
other crystal ;  besides,  it  would  not  break 
like  the  mica  ;  it  is  much  harder.  But  take 
the  glass  again,  and  look  at  the  fineness  of 
the  jagged  edges  of  the  triangles  where  they 
lap  over  each  other.  The  gold  has  the  same  ; 
but  you  see  them  better  here,  terrace  above 
terrace,  countless,  and  in  successive  angles, 
like  superb  fortified  bastions. 

May.  But  all  foliated  crystals  are  not  made 
of  triangles  ? 

L.  Far  from  it ;  mica  is  occasionally  so, 
but  usually  of  hexagons  ;  and  here  is  a 
foliated  crystal  made  of  squares,  which  will 
show  you  that  the  leaves  of  the  rock-land 
have  their  summer  green,  as  well  as  their 
autumnal  gold. 

Florrie.   Oh  !  oh !  oh  !  {jumps  for  Joy), 


L.  Did  you  never  see  a  bit  of  green  leaf 
before,  Florrie  ? 

Florrie.  Yes,  but  never  so  bright  as  that^ 
and  not  in  a  stone. 

L.    If  you  will  look  at  the  leaves   of  the 

trees  in  sunshine  after  a  shower,    you  will 

find  they  are  much  brighter  than  that ;  and 

*  surely  they  are  none  the  worse  for  being  on 

stalks  instead  of  in  stones  ? 

Florrie.  Yes,  but  then  there  are  so  many 
of  them,  one  never  looks,  I  suppose. 

L.   Now  you  have  it,  Florrie. 

Violet  {sighi7ig).  There  are  so  many 
beautiful  things  we  never  see  ! 

L.  You  need  not  sigh  for  that,  Violet  ;  but  I 
will  tell  you  what  we  should  all  sigh  for — that 
there  are  so  many  ugly  things  we  never  see. 

Violet.  But  we  don't  want  to  see  ugly 
things  ! 

L.  You  had  better  say,  ''We  don't  want 
to  suffer  them. "  You  ought  to  be  glad  in 
thinking  how  much  more  beauty  God  has 
made,  than  human  eyes  can  ever  see  ;  but 
not  glad  in  thinking  how  much  more  evil 
man  has  made,  than  his  own  soul  can  ever 
conceive,  much  more  than  his  hands  can 
ever  heal. 

Violet.  I  don't  understand  ; — how  is  that 
like  the  leaves .? 

L.  The  samie  law  holds  in  our  neglect  of 
multiplied  pain,  as  in  our  neglect  of  multi- 
plied beauty.  Florrie  jumps  for  joy  at  sight 
of  half  an   inch  of  a  green  leaf  in  a  brown 


78  Ube  JEtbice  of  tbe  Dust* 

stone,  and  takes  more  notice  of  it  than  of  all 
the  green  in  the  wood,  and  you,  or  I,  or  any 
of  us,  would  be  unhappy  if  any  single 
human  creature  beside  us  were  in  sharp 
pain  ;  but  we  can  read,  at  breakfast,  day 
after  day,  of  men  being  killed,  and  of  women 
and  children  dying  of  hunger  faster  than 
the  leaves  strew  the  brooks  in  Vallombrosa  ; 
— and  then  go  out  to  play  croquet,  as  if 
nothing  had  happened. 

i\lAY.  But  we  do  not  see  the  people  being 
killed  or  dying. 

L.  You  did  not  see  your  brother,  when 
you  got  the  telegram  the  other  day,  saying 
he  was  ill,  INIay  ;  but  you  cried  for  him  ;  and 
played  no  croquet.  But  we  cannot  talk  of 
these  things  now  ;  and  what  is  more,  you 
must  let  me  talk  straight  on,  for  a  little 
while  ;  and  ask  no  questions  till  I've  done  : 
for  we  branch  ("exfoliate,''  I  should  say, 
mineralogically)  always  into  something  else, 
' — though  that's  my  fault  more  than  yours  ; 
but  I  must  go  straight  on  now.  You  have 
^ot  a  distinct  notion,  I  hope,  of  leaf-crystals  ; 
and  you  see  the  sort  of  look  they  have  :  you 
can  easily  remember  that  "folium"  is  Latin 
for  a  leaf,  and  that  the  separate  flakes  of 
mica,  or  any  other  such  stones,  are  called 
"folia;"  but,  because  mica  is  the  most 
characteristic  of  these  stones,  other  things 
that  are  like  it  in  structure  are  called 
"  micas  ; "  thus  we  have  Uran-mica,  which 
is  the  green  leaf  I  showed  you  ;  and  Copper- 


Zbc  Crystal  OrDcrs.  79 

mica,  which  is  another  like  it,  made  chiefly 
of  copper  ;  and  this  foHated  iron  is  called 
''  micaceous  iron/'  You  have  then  these 
two  great  orders,  Needle-crystals,  made 
(probably)  of  grains  in  rows ;  and  Leaf- 
crystals,  made  (probably)  of  needles  inter- 
woven ;  now,  lastly,  there  are  crystals  of  a 
third  order,  in  heaps,  or  knots,  or  masses, 
which  may  be  made  either  of  leaves  laid 
one  upon  another,  or  of  needles  bound  like 
Roman  fasces  ;  and  mica  itself,  when  it  is 
well  crystallized,  puts  itself  into  such  masses, 
as  if  to  show  us  how  others  are  made.  Here 
is  a  brown  six-sided  crystal,  quite  as  beauti- 
fully chiseled  at  the  sides  as  any  castle 
tower  ;  but  you  see  it  is  entirely  built  of 
folia  of  mica,  one  laid  above  another,  which 
break  away  the  moment  I  touch  the  edge 
with  my  knife.  Now,  here  is  another  hex- 
agonal tower,  of  just  the  same  size  and 
color,  which  I  want  you  to  compare  with 
the  mica  carefully  ;  but  as  I  cannot  wait  for 
you  to  do  it  just  now,  I  must  tell  you  quick- 
ly what  main  differences  to  look  for.  First, 
you  will  feel  it  far  heavier  than  the  mica. 
Then,  though  its  surface  looks  quite  mica- 
ceous in  the  folia  of  it  when  you  try  them 
with  the  knife,  you  will  find  you  cannot 
break  them  away 

Kathleen.    May  I  try  ? 

L.  Yes,  you  mistrusting  Katie.  Here's 
my  strong  knife  for  you.  {Experimental 
pause.     Kathleen   doing  her  best)     You'll 


8o  XTbc  jEibiCB  ot  Voc  5)U6t 

have  that  knife  shutting  on  your  finger 
presently,  Kate  ;  and  I  don't  know  a  girl 
who  would  like  less  to  have  her  hand  tied 
up  for  a  week. 

Kathleen  {who  also  does  not  like  to  he 
beaten — giving  up  the  knife  despondently^. 
What  can  the  nasty  hard  thing  be? 

L.  It  is  nothing  but  indurated  clay,  Kate  : 
very  hard  set  certainly,  yet  not  so  hard  as 
it  might  be.  If  it  were  thoroughly  well 
crystallized,  you  would  see  none  of  those 
micaceous  fractures  ;  and  the  stone  would 
be  quite  red  and  clear,  all  through. 

Kathleen.   Oh,  cannot  you  show  us  ohe.'^ 

L.  Egypt  can,  ifyouaskher;  she  has  a  beau- 
tiful one  in  the  clasp  of  her  favorite  bracelet. 

Kathleen.   Why,  that's  a  ruby  ! 

L.  Well,  so  is  that  thing  you've  been 
scratching  at. 

Kathleen.     My  goodness  ! 

{Takes  up  the  sto7ie  again,  very  delicately  / 
and    drops     it.      General    consternation.^ 

L.  Never  mind,  Katie ;  you  might  drop  it 
from  the  top  of  the  house,  and  do  it  no 
harm.  But  though  you  really  are  a  very 
good  girl,  and  as  good-natured  as  anybody 
can  possibly  be,  remember,  you  have  your 
faults,  like  other  people  ;  and,  if  I  were  you, 
the  next  time  I  wanted  to  assert  anything 
energetically,  I  would  assert  it  by  ''  my 
badness,"  not  *'  my  goodness." 

Kathleen.   Ah,  now  it's  too  bad  of  you  ! 

L.  Well,  then,  I'll    invoke,  on  occasion^ 


c:be  Crystal  ©rDer6»  8i 

my  ''  too-badness/'  But  you  may  as  well 
pick  up  the  ruby,  now  you  have  dropped  it  ; 
and  look  carefully  at  the  beautiful  hexagonal 
lines  which  gleam  on  its  surface  ;  and  here 
is  a  pretty  white  sapphire  (essentially  the 
same  stone  as  the  ruby),  in  which  you  will 
see  the  same  lovely  structure,  like  the  threads 
of  the  finest  white  cobweb.  I  do  not  know 
what  is  the  exact  method  of  a  ruby's  con- 
struction ;  but  you  see  by  these  lines,  what 
fine  construction  there  ts,  even  in  this  hard- 
est of  stones  (after  the  diamond),  which 
usually  appears  as  a  massive  lump  or  knot. 
There  is  therefore  no  real  mineralogical  dis- 
tinction between  needle  crystals,  and  knotted 
crystals,  but  practically,  crystallized  masses 
throw  themselves  into  one  of  the  three  groups 
we  have  been  examining  to-day  ;  and  appear 
either  as  Needles,  as  Folia,  or  as  Knots  ;  when 
they  are  in  needles  (or  fibers),  they  make  the 
stones  or  rocks  formed  out  of  then  "  Jzbrous  ;" 
when  they  are  in  folia,  they  make  them 
"•foliated ;''  when  they  are  in  knots  (or 
grains),  "  grafiular.''  Fibrous  rocks  are 
comparatively  rare,  in  mass ;  but  fibrous 
minerals  are  innumerable  :  and  it  is  often  a 
question  which  really  no  one  but  a  young 
lady  could  possibly  settle,  whether  one 
should  call  the  fibers  composing  them 
**  threads  "  or  '' needles."  Here  is  amian- 
thus, for  instance,  which  is  quite  as  fine  and 
soft  as  any  cotton  thread  you  ever  sewed 
with  ;  and  here  is  sulphide  of  bismuth,  with 
6 


S2  XTbe  JEtblC6  of  tbc  Bust 

sharper  points  and  brighter  luster  than  your 
finest  needles  have  ;  and  fastened  in  white 
webs  of  quartz  more  delicate  than  your  finest 
lace  ;  and  here  is  sulphide  of  antimony,  which 
looks  like  mere  purple  wool,  but  it  is  all  of 
purple  needle  crystals,  and  here  is  red  oxide 
of  copper  (you  must  not  breathe  on  it  as 
you  look,  or  you  may  blow  some  of  the  films 
of  it  off  the  stone),  which  is  simply  a  woven 
tissue  of  scarlet  silk.  However,  these  finer 
thread-forms  are  comparatively  rare,  while 
the  bolder  and  needle-like  crystals  occur 
constantly  ;  so  that,  I  believe,  "  Needle- 
crystal  "  is  the  best  word  (the  ^rand  one  is 
*•'  Acicular  "  crystal,  but  Sibyl  will  tell  you  it  is 
all  the  same,  only  less  easily  understood  ;  and 
therefore  more  scientific).  Then  the  Leaf- 
crystals,  as  I  said,  form  an  immense  mass 
of  foliated  rocks  ;  and  the  Granular  crystals, 
which  are  of  many  kinds,  form  essentially 
granular,  or  granitic  and  porphyritic  rocks  ; 
and  it  is  always  a  point  of  more  interest  to 
me  (and  I  think  will  ultimately  be  to  you), 
to  consider  the  causes  which  force  a  given 
mineral  to  take  any  one  of  these  three  general 
forms,  than  what  the  peculiar  geometrical 
limitations  are,  belonging  to  its  own  crys- 
tals.* It  is  more  interesting  to  .  me,  for 
instance,  to  try  and  find  out  why  the  red 
oxide  of  copper,  usually  crystallizing  in 
cubes  or  octahedrons,  makes  itself  exquisite- 

*  Note  iv. 


Zbc  Crystal  Qx^cxe.  S^ 

ly,  out  of  its  cubes,  into  this  red  silk  in  one 
particular  Cornish  mine,  than  what  are  the 
absolutely  necessary  angles  of  the  octahe- 
dron, which  is  its  common  form.  At  all 
events,  that  mathematical  part  of  crystal- 
lography is  quite  beyond  girls'  strength  ;  but 
these  questions  of  the  various  tempers  and 
manners  of  crystals  are  not  only  compre- 
hensible by  you,  but  full  of  the  most  curious 
teaching  for  you.  For  in  the  fulfillment,  to 
the  best  of  their  power,  of  their  adopted 
form  under  given  circumstances  there  are 
conditions  entirely  resembling  those  of  hu- 
man virtue  :  and  indeed  expressible  under 
no  term  so  proper  as  that  of  the  Virtue,  or 
Courage  of  crystals  : — which,  if  you  are  not 
afraid  of  the  crystals  making  you  ashamed 
of  yourselves,  we  will  try  to  get  some  notion 
of,  to-morrow.  But  it  will  be  a  bye-lecture, 
and  more  about  yourselves  than  the  min- 
erals.    Don't  come  unless  you  like. 

Mary.  I'm  sure  the  crystals  will  make  us 
ashamed  of  ourselves  ;  but  we'll  come,  for 
all  that. 

L.  Meantime,  look  well  and  quietly  over 
these  needle,  or  thread  crystals,  and  those 
on  the  other  two  tables,  with  magnifying 
glasses  ;  and  see  what  thoughts  will  come 
into  your  little  heads  about  them.  For  the 
best  thoughts  are  generally  those  which 
come  without  being  forced,  one  does  not 
know  how.  And  so  I  hope  you  will  get 
through  your  wet  day  patiently. 


LECTURE  5. 

CRYSTAL  VIRTUES. 


LECTURE  V. 

CRYSTAL  VIRTUES. 

A  quiet  talk,  in  the  afternoon,  by  the  sunniest  window  of 
the  Drawing-room.  Present,  Florrie,  Isabel,  May, 
LuciLLA,  Kathleen,  Dora,  Mary,  and  some  others, 
who  have  saved  time  for  the  bye-Lecture, 

L.  So  you  have  really  come,  like  good 
girls,  to  be  made  ashamed  of  yourselves  ? 

Dora  {very  meekly).  No,  we  needn't  be 
made  so  ;  we  always  are. 

L.  Well,  I  believe  that's  truer  than  most 
pretty  speeches  :  but  you  know,  you  saucy 
girl,  some  people  have  more  reason  to  be  so 
than  others.  Are  you  sure  everybody  is,  as 
well  as  you  .? 

The  General  Voice.  Yes,  yes;  everybody. 

L.    What  !  Plorrie  ashamed  of  herself  t 

(Florrie  hides  behind  the  curlain. ) 

L.    And  Isabel .? 

(Isabel  hides  under  ihe  table.) 

L.    And  May } 

(May  runs  into  the  corner  behind  the 
piano. ) 

L.    And  Lucilla.? 

(Lucilla  hides  her  face  in  her  hands. ) 

87 


SS  Zbc  mhice  ot  tbe  Dust, 

L.  Dear,  dear ;  but  this  will  never  do.  I 
shall  have  to  tell  you  of  the  faults  of  the 
crystals,  instead  of  virtues,  to  put  you  in 
heart  again. 

May  (coyning  out  of  her  corner).  Oh  ! 
have  the  crystals  faults,  like  us } 

L.  Certainly,  May.  Their  best  virtues 
are  shown  in  fighting  their  faults  ;  and  some 
have  a  great  many  faults  ;  and,  some  are 
very  naughty  crystals  indeed. 

Florrie  (j'rom  behind  her  curtaiii).  As 
naughty  as  me? 

Isabel  {peeping  out  from  under  the  table- 
cloth).    Or  me  ? 

L.  Well,  I  don't  know.  They  never  for- 
get their  syntax,  children,  when  once  they've 
been  taught  it.  But  I  think  some  of  them 
are,  on  the  whole,  worse  than  any  of  you. 
Not  that  it's  amiable  of  you  to  look  so  radi- 
ant, all  in  a  minute,  on  that  account. 

Dora.  Oh  !  but  it's  so  much  more  com- 
fortable. 

{Everybody  seems  to  recover  their  spirits. 
Eclipse  of  Florrie  and  Isabel  terminates. ) 

L.  What  kindly  creatures  girls  are,  after 
all,  to  their  neighbors'  failings  !  I  think  you 
may  be  ashamed  of  yourselves  indeed,  now, 
children  I  I  can  tell  you,  you  shall  hear  of 
the  highest  crystalline  merits  that  I  can 
think  of,  to-day  :  and  I  wish  there  were 
more  of  them  ;  but  crystals  have  a  limited, 
though  a  stern,  code  of  morals ;  and  their 
essential  virtues  are  but  two  ; — the  first  is 


Cri^stal  Vittnce.  89 

to  be  pure,  and  the  second  to  be  well 
shaped-      ■ 

Mary.  Pure  !  Does  that  mean  clear — 
transparent  ? 

L.  No ;  unless  in  the  case  of  a  transpar- 
ent substance.  You  cannot  have  a  trans- 
parent crystal  of  gold ;  but  you  may  have 
a  perfectly  pure  one. 

Isabel.  But  you  said  it  was  the  shape  that 
made  things  be  crystals  ;  therefore,  oughtn't 
their  shape  to  be  their  first  virtue,  not  their 
second  ? 

L.  Right,  you  troublesome  mousie.  But 
I  call  their  shape  only  their  second  virtue, 
because  it  depends  on  time  and  accident, 
and  things  which  the  crystal  cannot  help. 
If  it  is  cooled  too  quickly,  or  shaken,  it  must 
take  what  shape  it  can  ;  but  it  seems  as  if, 
even  then,  it  had  in  itself  the  power  of  re- 
jecting impurity,  if  it  has  crystalline  life 
enough.  Here  is  a  crystal  of  quartz,  well 
enough  shaped  in  its  way  ;  but  it  seems  to 
have  been  languid  and  sick  at  heart ;  and 
some  white  milky  substance  has  got  into  it, 
and  mixed  itself  up  with  it,  all  through.  It 
makes  the  quartz  quiet  yellow,  if  you  hold 
it  up  to  the  light,  and  milky  blue  on  the  sur- 
face. Here  is  another,  broken  into  a  thou- 
sand separate  facets  and  out  of  all  traceable 
shape  ;  but  as  pure  as  a  mountain  spring. 
I  like  this  one  best. 

The  Audience.   So  do  I — and  I — and  I. 

Mary.   Would  a  crystallographer  ? 


90  vTbe  }£tbiC6  ot  tbe  Du^L 

/  L.  I  think  so.  He  would  find  many  more 
/laws  curiously  exemplified  in  the  irregularly 
.'ground  but  pure  crystal.  But  it  is  a  futile 
/  question,  this  of  first  or  second.  Purity  is 
;  in  most  cases  a  prior,  if  not  a  nobler,  virtue  ; 
at  all  events  it  is  most  convenient  to  think 
about  it  first. 

Mary.   But  what  ought  we  to  think  about 
I  it  ?    Is  there  much  to  be  thought — I  mean, 
much  to  puzzle  one.? 

L.  I  don't  know  what  you  call  ''much."" 
It  is  a  long  time  since  I  met  with  anything^ 
in  which  there  was  little.  There's  not  muck 
in  this,  perhaps.  The  crystal  must  be  either 
dirty  or  clean, — and  there's  an  end.  So  it 
is  with  one's  hands,  and  with  one's  heart — 
only  you  can  w^ash  your  hands  w^ithout 
changing  them,  but  not  hearts,  nor  crystals. 
On  the  whole,  while  you  are  young,  it  will 
be  as  well  to  take  care  that  your  hearts  don't 
want  much  washing  ;  for  they  may  perhaps 
need  wringing  also,  when  they  do. 

{Audience   doubtful  and   uncomfortable^ 
LuciLLA  at  last  takes  courage,) 

LuciLLA.  Oh  1  but  surely,  sir,  we  cannot 
make  our  hearts  clean  } 

L.  Not  easily,  Lucilla  ;  so  you  had  better 
keep  them  so,  when  they  are. 

LuciLLA.   When  they  are  !     But,  sir — 

L.   Well.? 

LuciLLA.  Sir — surely — are  we  not  told  that 
they  are  all  evil } 


Cri26tal  mttnce.  91 

L.  Wait  a  little,  Lucilla  ;  that  is  difficult 
ground  you  are  getting-  upon  and  we  must, 
keep  to  our  crystals,  till  at  least  we  under- 
stand what  /het'r  good  and  evil  consist  in  ; 
they  may  help  us  afterwards  to  some  use- 
ful  hints  about  our  own.  I  said  that  their 
goodness  consisted  chiefly  in  purity  of  sub- 
stance, and  perfectness  of  form  :  but  those 
are  rather  the  effects  of  their  goodness,  than 
the  goodness  itself.  The  inherent  virtues  of 
the  crystals,  resulting  in  these  outer  condi- 
tions, might  really  seem  to  be  best  described. 
in  the  words  we  should  use  respecting  liv- 
ing creatures — ' '  force  of  heart '"  and  ' '  steadi- 
ness of  purpose."  There  seem  to  be  ia 
some  crystals,  from  the  beginning,  an  un- 
conquerable purity  of  vital  power,  and 
strength  of  crystal  spirit.  Whatever  dead 
substance,  unacceptant  of  this  energy, 
comes  in  their  way,  is  either  rejected,  or 
forced  to  take  some  beautiful  subordinate 
form  ;  the  purity  of  the  crystal  remains  un- 
sullied, and  every  atom  of  it  bright  with 
coherent  energy.  Then  the  second  condi- 
tion is,  that  from  the  beginning  of  its  whole 
structure,  a  fine  crystal  seems  to  have  deter- 
mined that  it  will  be  of  a  certain  size  and  of 
a  certain  shape  ;  it  persists  in  this  plan,  and 
completes  it  Here  is  a  perfect  crystal  of 
quartz  for  you.  It  is  of  an  unusual  form, 
and  one  which  it  might  seem  very  difficult 
to  build — a  pyramid  with  convex  sides,  com- 
posed of  other  minor  pyramids.     But  there. 


92  Zbc  l£mc6  ot  tbe  Dust. 

is  not  a  flaw  in  its  contour  throughout  ;  not 
one  of  its  myriads  of  component  sides  but  is 
as  bright   as  a  jeweler's  faceted  work  (and 
far  finer,  if  you  saw  it  close).     The  crystal 
1  points  are  as  sharp  as  javelins  ;  their  edges 
1  will  cut  glass  with  a  touch.  "   Anything  more 
'resolute,  consummate,  determinate  in  form, 
cannot  be  conceived.      Here,    on  the  other 
hand,  is  a  crystal  of  the  same  substance,  ' 
a  perfectly  simple  type  of  form — a  plain  si 
sided  prism  ;  but  from  its  base  to  its  poin 
— and  it  is  nine  inches  long, — it  has  neve 
for  one  instant  made  up  its  mind  what  thick 
ness  it  will  have.      It  seems  to  have  begui 
by  making  itself  as  thick  as  it  thought  pos 
sible  with  the  quantity  of  material  at  com 
mand.     Still  not  being  as  thick  as  it  wouk' 
like  to  be,   it  has  clumsily  glued  on  more 
substance  at  one  of  its  sides.     Then  it  has 
thinned  itself,  in  a  panic  of  economy  ;  then 
puffed  itself  out  again  ;  then  starved  one  side 
to  enlarge  another  ;  then  warped  itself  quite 
out  of  its  first  line.      Opaque,  rough-surfaced, 
jagged   on  the  edge,  distorted  in  the  spine, 
it  exhibits  a  quite  human  image  of  decrepi- 
tude and  dishonor  ;  but  the  worst   of  all  the 
signs   of  its  decay  and  helplessness,  is  that 
half-way    up,    a    parasite    crystal,    smaller, 
hut  just   as  sickly,  has  rooted  itself  in   the 
side  of  the  larger  one,  eating  out  a  cavity 
round  its  root,  and  then  growing  backwards, 
or  downwards,  contrary  to  the  direction  of 
the  main  crystal.     Yet  I  cannot  trace  the 


Crystal  \Dfrtue6.  93 

least  difference  in  purity  of  substance  be-  j 
tween  the  first  most  noble  stone,  and  this  i 
ignoble  and  dissolute  one.  The  impurity  off' 
the  last  is  in  its  will,  or  want  of  will. 

Mary.  Oh,  if  we  could  but  understand  the 
the  meaning  of  it  all  ! 

L.    We  can  understand  all  that  is  good  for  1 
ns.      It  is  just  as  true  for  us,  as  for  the  crys-  I 
il,  that  the  nobleness  of  life  depends  on  its  \ 
onsistency, — clearness   of   purpose, — quiet  1 
:nd  ceaseless    energy.     All  doubt,   and  re-   j 
penting,  and  botching,  and  re-touching,  and 
wondering  what  will  it  be  best  to  do   next,    j 
are  vice,  as  well  as  misery. 

Mary  {much  wondering).  But  must  not 
one  repent  when  one  does  wrong,  and  hesi- 
tate when  one  can't  see  one's  way .?  1 

L.  You  have  no  business  at  all  to  da 
wrong ;  nor  to  get  into  any  way  that  you 
cannot  see.  Your  intelligence  should  al- 
ways be  far  in  advance  of  your  act.  When- 
ever you  do  not  know  what  you  are  about, 
you  are  sure  to  be  doing  wrong. 

Kathleen.  Oh,  dear,  but  I  never  know" 
what  I  am  about ! 

L.  Very  true,  Katie,  but  it  is  a  great  deal 
to  know,  if  you  know  that.  And  you  find 
that  you  have  done  wrong  afterwards  ;  and 
perhaps  some  day  you  may  begin  to  know, 
or  at  least,  think,  what  you  are  about. 

Isabel.  But  surely  people  can't  do  very 
wrong  if  they  don't  know,  can  they  ?  I 
mean,  they  can't  be  very  naughty.     They 


^4  ^t)c  ;iEtbic6  ot  tbe  WneU 

can  be  wrong,  like  Kathleen  or  me,  when 
Ave  make  mistakes ;  but  not  wrong  in  the 
•dreadful  way.  I  can't  express  what  I 
mean  ;  but  there  are  two  sorts  of  wrong, 
are  there  not  ? 

L.  Yes,  Isabel ;  but  you  will  find  that  the 
^great  difference  is  between  kind  and  unkind 
wrongs,  not  between  meant  and  unmeant 
wrong.  Very  few  people  really  mean  to  do 
wrong, — in  a  deep  sense,  none.  They  only 
don't  know  what  they  are  about.  Cain  did 
Tiot  mean  to  do  wrong  when  he  killed  Abel. 
(Isabel  draws  a  deep  breath,  and  opens 
her  eyes  ve?y  wide. ) 

L.  No,  Isabel ;  and  there  are  countless 
Cains  among  us  now,  who  kill  their  brothers 
by  the  score  a  day,  not  only  for  less  provo- 
cation than  Cain  had,  but  for  no  provoca- 
tion,— and  merely  for  what  they  can  make 
•of  their  bones, — yet  do  not  think  they  are 
doing  wrong  in  the  least.  Then  sometimes 
you  have  the  business  reversed,  as  over  in 
America  these  last  years,  where  you  have 
seen  Abel  resolutely  killing  Cain,  and  not 
thinking  he  is  doing  wrong.  The  great  diffi- 
culty is  always  to  open  people  s  eyes  :  to 
touch  their  feelings,  and  break  their  hearts, 
is  easy ;  the  difficult  thing  is  to  break  their 
heads.  What  does  it  matter,  as  long  as  they 
remain  stupid,  whether  you  change  their 
feelings  or  not?  You  cannot  be  always  at 
their  elbow  to  tell  them  what  is  right  :  and 
they  may  just  do    as  wrong  as  before,   or 


Crystal  lD(rtue6*  95 

i^^orse  ;  and  their  best  intentions  merely 
make  the  road  smooth  for  them, — you  know 
where,  children.  For  it  is  not  the  place 
itself  that  is  paved  with  them,  as  people  say 
.so  often.  You  can't  pave  the  bottomless 
pit  ;  but  you  may  the  road  to  it; 

May.  Well,  but  if  people  do  as  well  as 
they  can  see  how,  surely  that  is  the  right 
for  them,  isn't  it  ? 

L.  No,  May,  not  a  bit  of  it ;  right  is  right, 
-and  wrong  is  wrong.  It  is  only  the  fool 
who  docs  Vv^rong,  and  says  he  "  did  it  for  the 
best."  And  if  there's  one  sort  of  person  in 
the  world  that  the  Bible  speaks  harder  of 
than  another,  it  is  fools.  Their  particular 
and  chief  way  of  saying  ''There  is  no  God'' 
is  this,  of  declaring  that  whatever  their 
"public  opinion  "  maybe,  is  right  :  and  that 
God  s  opinion  is  of  no  consequence. 

May.  But  surely  nobody  can  always 
know  what  is  right  .^ 

L.  Yes,  you  always  can,  for  to-day  ;  and 
if  you  do  what  you  see  of  it  to-day,  you  will 
.see  more  of  it,  and  more  clearly,  to-morrow. 
Here  for  instance,  you  children  are  at  school, 
and  have  to  learn  French,  and  arithmetic, 
and  music,  and  several  other  such  things. 
That  is  your  "  right  "  for  the  present;  the 
"right  "  for  us,  your  teachers,  is  to  see  that 
you  learn  as  much  as  you  can  without  spoil- 
ing your  dinner,  your  sleep,  or  your  play ; 
and  that  what  you  do  learn,  you  learn  well.  \ 
You  all  know  when  you  learn  with  a  will,      ) 

(  UNIVERSITY  1 


\ 


96  ^be  JEtblca  of  tbe  Du6t» 

and  when  you  dawdle.     There's  no  doubt 
of  conscience  about  that,  I  suppose  ? 

Violet.  No  ;  but  if  one  wants  to  read  an 
amusing  book,  instead  of  learning  one's 
lesson  ? 

L.  You  don't  call  that  a  "question,''' 
seriously,  Violet  ?  You  are  then  merely 
deciding  whether  you  will  resolutely  da 
wrong  or  not. 

Mary.  But  in  after  life,  how  many  fearful 
difficulties  may  arise,  however  one  tries  to 
know  or  to  do  what  is  right ! 

L.  Y'ou  are  much  too  sensible  a  girl, 
Mary,  to  have  felt  that,  whatever  you  may 
have  seen.  A  great  many  of  young  ladies' 
difficulties  arise  from  their  falling  in  love 
with  a  wrong  person  ;  but  they  have  no 
business  to  let  themselves  fall  in  love,  till 
they  know  he  is  the  right  one. 

Dora.  How  many  thousands  ought  he 
to  have  a  year  ? 

L.  {disdaining  reply).  There  are,  of 
course,  certain  crises  of  fortune  when  one  has 
to  take  care  of  oneself,  and  mind  shrewdly 
what  one  is  about.  There  is  never  any  real 
doubt  about  the  path,  but  you  may  have  to 
walk  very  slowly. 

Mary.  And  if  one  is  forced  to  do  a  wrong 
thing  by  some  one  who  has  authority  over 
you  ? 

L.  My  dear,  no  one  can  be  forced  to  do 
a  wrong  thing,  for  the  guilt  is  in  the  will  : 
but   you  may  any  day  be  forced  to  do  a 


I 


Crystal  Dirtues.  97 

fatal  thing,  as  you  might  be  forced  to  take 
poison  ;  the  remarkable  law  of  nature  in  such 
cases  being,  that  it  is  always  unfortimate 
you  who  are  poisoned,  and  not  the  person 
who  gives  you  the  dose.  It  is  a  very  strange 
law,  but  it  IS  a  law.  Nature  merely  sees  to 
the  carrying  out  of  the  normal  operation  of 
arsenic.  She  never  troubles  herselt  to  ask 
who  gave  it  you.  So  also  you  may  be 
starved  to  death,  morally  as  well  as  phys- 
ically, by  other  people's  faults.  You  are, 
on  the  whole,  very  good  children  sitting 
here  to-day  ;  do  you  think  that  your  good- 
ness comes  all  by  your  own  contriving.?  or 
that  you  are  gentle  and  kind  because  your 
dispositions  are  naturally  more  angelic  than 
those  of  the  poor  girls  who  are  playing, 
with  wild  eyes,  on  the  dust-heaps  in  the 
alleys  of  our  great  towns  ;  and  who  will 
one  day  fill  their  prisons, — or,  better,  their 
graves  .f*  Heaven  only  knows  where  they, 
and  we  who  have  cast  them  there,  shall 
stand  at  last.  But  the  main  judgment  ques- 
tion will  be,  I  suppose,  for  all  of  us,  ''Did 
you  keep  a  good  heart  through  it }  "  What 
you  were,  others  may  answer  for  ; — what 
you  tried  to  be,  you  must  answer  for  your- 
self. Was  the  heart  pure  and  true — tell  us 
that } 

And  so  we  come  back  to  your  sorrowful 
question,  Lucilla,  which  I  put  aside  a  little 
ago.  You  would  be  afraid  to  answer  that 
your  heart  was  pure  and  true,  would  not  you  ? 


98  Zbc  iBtbice  ot  tbe  Bust. 

LuciLLA.   Yes,  indeed,  sir. 

L.  Because  you  have  been  taught  that  it 
is  all  evil — "only  evil  continually/'  Some- 
how, often  as  people  say  that,  they  never 
seem,  to  me,  to  believe  it.  Do  you  really 
believe  it  ? 

LuciLLA.   Yes,  sir  ;   I  hope  so. 

L.   That  you  have  an  entirely  bad  heart  ? 

LuciLLA  {a  Utile  uncomfortable  at  the  sub- 
stitution of  the  monosyllable  for  the  dissyllable, 
nevertheless  persisting  i7i  her  orthodoxy). 
Yes,  sir. 

L.  Florrie,  I  am  sure  you  are  tired  ;  I 
never  like  you  to  stay  when  you  are  tired  ; 
but,  you  know,  you  must  not  play  with  the 
kitten  while  we're  talking. 

Florrie.  Oh  !  but  I'm  not  tired;  and  I'm 
only  nursing  her.  She'll  be  asleep  in  my 
lap,  directly. 

L.  Stop  !  that  puts  me  in  mind  of  some- 
thing I  had  to  show  you,  about  minerals 
that  are  like  hair.  I  want  a  hair  out  of 
Tittle's  tail. 

Florrie  {quite  rude,  in  her  surprise,  even 
to  the  point  of  repeating  expressions).  Out 
of  Tittle's  tail  ! 

L.  Yes  :  a  brown  one  :  Lucilla,  you  can 
get  at  the  tip  of  it  nicely,  under  Florrie's  arm; 
just  pull  one  out  for  me. 

LuciLLA.   Oh  !  but,  sir,  it  will  hurt  her  so  1 

L.  Never  mind ;  she  can't  scratch  you 
while  Florrie  is  holding  her.  Now  that  I 
think  of  it,  you  had  better  pull  out  two. 


Crystal  VittncB*  99 

LuciLLA.  But  then  she  may  scratch 
Florrie  !  and  it  will  hurt  her  so,  sir  !  if  you 
only  want  brown  hairs,  wouldn't  two  of 
mine  do  ? 

L.  Would  you  really  rather  pull  out  your 
own  than  Tittle's  ? 

LuciLLA.   Oh,  of  course,   if  mine  will  do. 

L.   But  that's  very  wicked,  Lucilla  ! 

LuciLLA.   Wicked,  sir.?* 

L.  Yes  ;  if  your  heart  was  not  so  bad,  you 
would  much  rather  pull  all  the  cat's  hairs 
out  than  one  of  your  own. 

LuciLLA.  Oh  !  but,  sir,  I  didn't  mean  bad 
like  that. 

L.  I  believe,  if  the  truth  were  told,  Lucilla, 
you  would  like  to  tie  a  kettle  to  Tittle's  tail, 
and  hunt  her  round  the  playground. 

LuciLLA.   Indeed,  I  should  not,  sir. 

L.  That's  not  true,  Lucilla ;  you  know  it 
cannot  be. 

LuciLLA.   Sir  ? 

L.  Certainly  it  is  not  ;^-how  can  you  pos- 
sibly speak  any  truth  out  of  such  a  heart  as 
you  have  ?     It  is  wholly  deceitful. 

LuciLLA.  Oh  !  no,  no  ;  I  don't  mean  that 
way  ;  I  don't  mean  that  it  makes  me  tell  lies, 
quite  out. 

L.   Only  that  it  tells  lies  within  you  ? 

LuciLLA.  Yes. 

L.  Then,  outside  of  it,  you  know  what  is 
true,  and  say  so  ;  and  I  may  trust  the  out- 
side of  your  heart ;  but  within,  it  is  all  foul 
and  false.     Is  that  the  way  ? 


100  ^bc  &biCB  ot  tbc  Bust. 

LuciLLA.  I  suppose  so  :  I  don't  under- 
stand it  quite. 

L.  There  is  no  occasion  for  understandings 
it  ;  but  do  you  feel  it  ?  Are  you  sure  that 
your  heart  is  deceitful  above  all  things,  and 
desperately  wicked? 

LuciLLA  (  much  relieved  by  fifiding  herself 
among  phrases  with  which  she  is  acquainted). 
Yes,  sir.      I'm  sure  of  that. 

L.    {pensively).     I'm  sorry  for  it,  Lucilla.. 

LuciLLA.      So  am  I,  indeed. 

L..  What  are  you  sorry  with,  Lucilla .? 

LuciLLA.   Sorry  with,  sir } 

L.  Yes  ;  I  mean,  where  do  you  feel  sorry, 
in  your  feet  1 

LuciLLA  {laughing  a  little).  No,  sir,  of 
course. 

L.    In  your  shoulders,  then  } 

LuciLLA.   No,  sir. 

L.  You  are  sure  of  that }  Because,  I 
fear,  sorrow  in  the  shoulders  would  not  be 
worth  much. 

LuciLLA.  I  suppose  I  feel  it  in  my  heart, 
if  I  really  am  sorry. 

L.  If  you  really  are  !  Do  you  mean  to 
say  that  you  are  sure  you  ar«  utterly  wicked, 
and  yet  do  not  care } 

LuciLLA.  No,  indeed  ;  I  have  cried  about 
it  often. 

L.  Well,  then,  you  are  sorry  in  your 
heart  .'* 

LuciLLA.  Yes,  when  the  sorrow  is  worth 
anything. 


Cri26tal  \Dtrtue0*  loi 

L.  Even  if  it  be  not,  it  cannot  be  any- 
where else  but  there.  It  is  not  the  crystal- 
line lens  of  your  eyes  which  is  sorry,  when 
you  cry  ? 

LuciLLA.   No,  sir,  of  course. 

L.  Then,  have  you  two  hearts  ;  one  of 
which  is  wicked,  and  the  other  grieved  ?  or 
is  one  side  of  it  sorry  for  the  other  side.? 

LuciLLA  {weary  of  cross-examination^  and 
a  little  vexed).  Indeed,  sir,  you  know  I  can't 
understand  it  ;  but  you  know  how  it  is  writ- 
ten— "  another  law  in  my  members,  war- 
ring against  the  law  of  my  mind." 

L.  Yes,  Lucilla,  I  know  how  it  is  written; 
but  I  do  not  see  that  it  will  help  us  to  know 
that,  if  we  neither  understand  what  is  writ- 
ten, nor  feel  it.  And  you  will  not  get  nearer 
to  the  meaning  of  one  verse,  if,  as  soon  as 
you  are  puzzled  by  it,  you  escape  to  another, 
introducing  three  new  words — "law," 
*' members,"  and  **  mind"  ;  not  one  of  which 
you  at  present  know  the  meaning  of;  and 
respecting  which,  you  probably  never  will 
be  much  wiser  ;  since  men  like  Montesquieu 
and  Locke  have  spent  great  part  of  their 
lives  in  endeavoring  to  explain  two  of  them. 

LuciLLA.  Oh  !  please,  sir,  ask  somebody 
else. 

L.  If  I  thought  any  one  else  could  answer 
better  than  you,  Lucilla,  I  would  :  but  sup- 
pose I  try,  instead,  myself,  to  explain  your 
feelings  to  you  ? 

LuciLLA.  Oh,  yes  ;  please  do. 


102  Zhc  ;i£tbiC6  ot  tbe  Dust, 

L.  Mind,  I  say  your  ''feelings,"  not  your 
*' belief."  For  I  cannot  undertake  to  ex- 
plain anybody's  beliefs.  Still  I  must  try 
a  little  first,  to  explain  the  belief  also,  be- 
cause I  want  to  draw  it  to  some  issue.  As 
far  as  I  understand  what  you  say,  or  any 
one  else,  taught  as  you  have  been  taught, 
says,  on  this  matter, — you  think  that  there 
is  an  external  goodness,  a  whited-sepulcher 
kind  of  goodness,  which  appears  beautiful 
outwardly,  but  is  within  full  of  unclean- 
ness  :  a  deep  secret  guilt,  of  which  we  our- 
selves are  not  sensible  ;  and  which  can  only 
be  seen  by  the  Maker  of  us  all.  {Approving- 
murmurs  /rom  audtmce.) 

L.  Is  it  not  so  with  the  body  as  well  as 
the  soul  ? 

(Looked  notes  of  interrogation.') 

L.  A  skull,  for  instance,  is  not  a  beautiful 
thing .? 

(Grave faces^  signify i^ig  "  Certainly  not,  "" 
and   ' '  What  next  P '') 

L.  And  if  you  all  could  see  in  each  other 
with  clear  eyes,  whatever  God  sees  beneath 
those  fair  faces  of  yours,  you  would  not  like 
it.? 

(Murmured  No's. ) 

L.   Nor  would  it  be  good  for  you } 
(Silence. ) 

L.   The  probability  being  that  what  God 
does  not  allow  you  to  see.  He  does  not  wish 
you  to  see  ;  nor  even  to  think  of? 
(Silence  prolonged. ) 


Cri26tal  Vixtvice.  103 

L.  It  would  not  at  all  be  good  for  you, 
for  instance,  whenever  you  were  washing 
your  faces,  and  braiding  your  hair,  to  be 
thinking  of  the  shapes  of  the  jawbones,  and 
of  the  cartilage  of  the  nose,  and  of  the 
jagged  sutures  of  the  scalp  ? 

{Resolutely  whispered  Nos. ) 

L.  Still  less  to  see  through  a  clear  glass 
the  daily  processes  of  nourishment  and 
decay  ? 

{No's.) 

L.  Still  less  if  instead  of  merely  inferior 
and  preparatory  conditions  of  structure,  as 
in  the  skeleton, — or  inferior  offices  of  struc- 
ture, as  in  operations  of  life  and  death, — 
there  were  actual  disease  in  the  body  ;  ghast- 
ly and  dreadful.  You  would  try  to  cure  it ; 
but  having  taken  such  measures  as  were 
necessary,  you  would  not  think  the  cure 
likely  to  be  promoted  by  perpetually  watch- 
ing the  wounds,  or  thinking  of  them.  On  the 
contrary,  you  would  be  thankful  for  every 
moment  of  forgetfulness  ;  as,  in  daily  health, 
you  must  be  thankful  that  your  Maker  has 
veiled  whatever  is  fearful  in  your  frame  under 
a  sweet  and  manifest  beauty  ;  and  has  made 
it  your  duty,  and  your  only  safety,  to  rejoice 
in  that,  both  in  yourself  and  in  others  : — not 
indeed  concealing,  or  refusing  to  believe 
in  sickness,  if  it  come ;  but  never  dwelling 
on  it. 

Now,  your  wisdom  and  duty  touching 
soul-sickness  are  just  the  same.     Ascertain 


104  ^t)e  iBtbics  of  tbe  Bust. 

clearly  what  is  wrong  with  you  ;  and  so  far 
as  you  know  any  means  of  mending  it, 
take  those  means,  and  have  done  ;  when  you 
are  examining  yourself,  never  call  yourself 
merely  a  ' '  sinner, ''  that  is  very  cheap  abuse  ; 
and  utterly  useless.  You  may  even  get  to 
like  it,  and  be  proud  of  it.  But  call  yourself 
a  liar,  a  coward,  a  sluggard,  a  glutton,  or  an 
evil-eyed,  jealous  wretch,  if  you  indeed  find 
yourself  to  be  in  any  wise  any  of  these.  Take 
steady  means  to  check  yourself  in  whatever 
fault  you  have  ascertained,  and  justly  ac- 
cused yourself  of.  And  as  soon  as  you  are 
in  active  way  of  mending,  you  will  be  no 
more  inclined  to  moan  over  an  undefined 
corruption.  For  the  rest,  you  will  find  it 
less  easy  to  uproot  faults,  than  to  choke  them 
by  gaining  virtues.  Do  not  think  of  your 
faults  ;  still  less  of  others'  faults  :  in  every 
person  who  comes  near  3^ou,  look  for  what 
is  good  and  strong  :  honor  that  ;  rejoice  in 
it;  and,  as  you  can,  try  to  imitate  it;  and 
your  faults  will  drop  off  like  dead  leaves, 
when  their  time  comes.  If,  on  looking  back, 
your  whole  life  should  seem  rugged  as  a 
palm-tree  stem  ;  still,  never  mind,  so  long  as 
it  had  been  growing  ;  and  has  its  grand  green 
shade  of  leaves,  and  weight  of  honeyed  fruit 
at  top.  And  even  if  you  cannot  find  much 
good  in  yourself  at  last,  think  that  it  does 
not  much  matter  to  the  universe  either 
what  you  were,  or  are  ;  think  how  many 
people  are  noble,  if  you  cannot  be  ;  and  re- 


Crystal  Dirtues*  105 

joice  in  ilieir  nobleness.  An  immense  quan- 
tity of  modern  confession  of  sin,  even  when 
honest,  is  merely  a  sickly  egotism  ;  which 
will  rather  gloat  over  its  own  evil,  than  lose 
the  centralization  of  its  interest  in  itself 

Mary.  But  then,  if  we  ought  to  forget  our- 
selves so  much,  how  did  the  old  Greek 
proverb  "Know  thyself"  come  to  be  so 
highly  estemed } 

L.  My  dear,  it  is  the  proverb  of  proverbs  ; 
Apollo's  proverb,  and  the  sun's — but  do  you 
think  you  can  know  yourself  by  looking  i7iio 
yourself.?  Never.  You  can  know  what  you 
^re,  only  by  looking  out  of  yourself.  Meas- 
ure your  own  powers  with  those  of  others  ;  \ 
compare  your  own  interests  with  those  of 
•others  ;  try  to  understand  what  you  appear  I 
to  them,  as  well  as  what  they  appear  to  ' 
you  ;  and  judge  of  yourselves,  in  all  things, 
relatively  and  subordinately ;  not  positive- 
ly :  starting  always  with  a  wholesome 
conviction  of  the  probability  that  there  is 
nothing  particular  about  you.  For  instance, 
;some  of  you  perhaps  think  you  can  write 
poetry.  Dwell  on  your  own  feelings  ;  and 
doings: — and  you  will  soon  think  your- 
selves Tenth  Muses  ;  but  forget  your  own 
feelings  ;  and  try,  instead,  to  understand 
a  line  or  two  of  Chaucer  or  Dante  :  and 
you  will  soon  begin  to  feel  yourselves 
very  foolish  girls — which  is  much  like  the  / 
fact. 

So,    something   which  befalls   you    may 


io6  ^be  lBmc6  of  tbe  S)U6t 

seem  a  great  misfortune  ; — you  meditate 
over  its  effects  on  you  personally  ;  and  begin 
to  think  that  it  is  a  chastisement,  or  a  warn- 
ing, or  a  this  or  that  or  the  other  of  profound 
significance  ;  ^nd  that  all  the  angels  in 
heaven  have  left  their  business  for  a  little 
while,  that  they  may  watch  its  effects  on 
your  mind  But  give  up  this  egotistic  in-^ 
dulgence  of  your  fancy  ;  examine  a  little 
what  misfortunes,  greater  a  thousand  fold, 
are  happening,  every  second,  to  twenty 
times  worthier  persons  :  and  your  self- con- 
sciousness will  change  into  pity  and  humil- 
ity ;  and  you  will  know  yourself,  so  far  as 
to  understand  that  *'  there  hath  nothings 
taken  thee  but  what  is  common  to  man." 

Now,  Lucilla,  these  are  the  practical  con- 
clusions which  any  person  of  sense  would 
arrive  at,  supposing  the  texts  which  relate^ 
to  the  inner  evil  of  the  heart  were  as  many, 
and  as  prominent,  as  they  are  ojj^en  sup- 
posed to  be  by  careless  readers/^But  the 
way  in  which  common  people  Wad  their 
Bibles  is  just  like  the  way  that  the  old  monks- 
thought  hedgehogs  ate  grapes.  They  rolled 
themselves  (it  was  said),  over  and  over, 
where  the  grapes  lay  on  the  ground.  What 
fruit  stuck  to  their  spines,  they  carried  off, 
and  ate.  So  your  hedgehoggy  readers  roll 
themselves  over  and  over  their  Bibles,  and 
declare  that  whatever  sticks  to  their  own 
spines  is  Scripture,  and  that  nothing  else 
is.     But  you  can  only  get  the  skins  of  the: 


Crisetal  IDirtues,  107 

texts  that  way.  If  you  want  their  juice, 
you  must  press  them  in  cluster.  Now,  the 
clustered  texts  about  the  human  heart,  insist, 
as  a  body,  not  on  any  inherent  corruption 
in  all  hearts,  but  on  the  terrific  distinction 
between  the  bad  and  the  good  ones.  "A 
good  man,  out  of  the  good  treasure  of  his 
heart,  bringeth  forth  that  which  is  good; 
and  an  evil  man,  out  of  the  evil  treasure, 
bringeth  forth  that  which  is  evil."  *'They 
on  the  rock  are  they  which,  in  an  honest 
and  good  heart,  having  heard  t.he  word, 
keep  it."  ''  Delight  thyself  m  the  Lord,  and 
He  shall  give  thee  the  desires  of  thine 
heart."  ** The  wicked  have  bent  their  bow, 
that  they  may  privily  shoot  at  him  that  is 
upright  in  heart,"  And  so  on  ;  they  are 
countless,  to  the  same  effect.  And,  for  all 
of  us,  the  question  is  not  at  all  to  ascertain 
how  much  or  how  little  corruption  there  is 
in  human  nature  ;  but  to  ascertain  whether, 
out  of  all  the  mass  of  that  nature,  we  are  of 
the  sheep  or  the  goat  breed  ;  whether  we 
are  people  of  upright  heart,  being  shot  at,  or 
people  of  crooked  heart,  shooting.  And,  of 
all  the  texts  bearing  on  the  subject,  this, 
which  is  a  quite  simple  and  practical  order, 
is  the  one  you  have  chiefly  to  hold  in  mind.  / 

I*' Keep  thy  heart  with  all  diligencgs4"or  out 
of  it  are  the  issues  of  life. "  "*=*rsf 

LuciLLA.   And  yet,    how  inconsistent  the 
texts  seem  ! 

L.  Nonsense,  Lucilla  !  do  you  think  the 


io8  XTbe  JEtbics  ot  tbe  S)U6t 

universe  is  bound  to  look  consistent  to  a  girl 
of  fifteen  ?  Look  up  at^  your  own  room 
window  ; — you  can  just  see  it  from  where 
you  sit.  Tm  glad  that  it  is  left  open,  as  it 
ought  to  be,  in  so  fine  a  day.  But  do  you 
see  what  a  black  spot  it  looks,  in  the  sun- 
lighted  wall  ? 

LuciLLA.   Yes,  it  looks  as  black  as  ink. 

L.  Yet  you  know  it  is  a  very  bright  room 
when  you  are  inside  of  it  ;  quite  as  bright 
as  there  is  any  occasion  for  it  to  be,  that  its 
little  lady  may  see  to  keep  it  tidy.  Well,  it 
is  very  probable,  also,  that  if  you  could  look 
into  your  heart  from  the  sun  s  point  of  view, 
it  might  appear  a  very  black  hole  indeed  : 
nay,  the  sun  may  sometimes  think  good  to 
tell  you  that  it  looks  so  to  Him  ;  but  He  will 
come  into  it,  and  make  it  very  cheerful  for 
you,  for  all  that,  if  you  don't  put  the  shutters 
up.  And  the  one  question  iov you,  remem- 
ber, is  not  "  dark  or  light  ?  "  but  "  tidy  or 
untidy  ?  "  Look  well  to  your  sweeping  and 
garnishing  ;  and  be  sure  it  is  only  the  ban- 
ished spirit,  or  some  of  the  seven  wickeder 
ones  at  his  back,  who  will  still  whisper  to 
you  that  it  is  all  black. 


LECTURE  6, 

CRYSTAL  QUARRELS. 


LECTURE  VI. 

CR  YSTALQ  UA  RREL  S. 

Full  conclave^  in  Schoolroom.  There  has  been  a  game  of 
crystallizatio7t  in  the  Tnorning,  of  which  various  ac- 
count has  to  be  rendered.  In  particular^  everybody  has 
to  explain  why  they  were  always  where  they  were  not 
intended  to  be. 

L.  {Jiaving  received  and  considered  the 
reported.^  You  have  got  on  pretty  well, 
children  :  but  you  know  these  were  easy 
figures  you  have  been  trying.  Wait  till  I 
have  drawn  you  out  the  plans  of  some 
crystals  of  snow  ! 

Mary.  I  don't  think  those  will  be  the  most 
difficult  : — they  are  so  beautiful  that  we 
shall  remember  our  places  better  ;  and  then 
they  are  all  regular,  and  in  stars  :  it  is  those 
twisty  oblique  ones  we  are  afraid  of. 

L.  Read  Carlyle's  account  of  the  battle  of 
Leuthen,  and  learn  Friedrich's  "  oblique 
order."  You  will  ''get  it  done  for  once,  I  i 
think,  provided  you  can  march  as  a  pair  of 
compasses  would."  But  remember,  when 
you  can  construct  the  most  difficult  single 
figures,  you  have  only  learned  half  the  game 


112  ^be  ;etbic6  ot  tbe  Duet.  ! 

— nothing  so  much  as  the  half,  indeed,  as-  j 
the  crystals  themselves  play  it. 

Mary.    Indeed  ;  what  else  is  there  ? 

L.  It  is  seldom  that  any  mineral  crystal- 
lizes alone.  Usually  two  or  three,  under 
quite  different  crystalline  laws,  form  to- 
gether. They  do  this  absolutely  without 
flaw  or  fault,  when  they  are  in  fine  temper  : 
and  observe  what  this  signifies.  It  signifies, 
that  the  two,  or  more,  minerals  of  different 
natures  agree,  somehow  between  them- 
selves, how  much  space  each  will  want ; — 
agree  which  of  them  shall  give  way  to  the 
other  at  their  junction  ;  or  in  what  measure 
each  will  accommodate  itself  to  the  other's 
shape  !  And  then  each  takes  its  permitted 
shape,  and  allotted  share  of  space  ;  yielding, 
or  being  yielded  to,  as  it  l3uilds  till  each 
crystal  has  fitted  itself  perfectly  and  grace- 
fully to  its  differently-natured  neighbor. 
So  that,  in  order  to  practice  this,  in  even  the 
simplest  terms,  you  must  divide  into  two 
parties,  wearing  different  colors  ;  each  must 
choose  a  different  figure  to  construct  ;  and 
you  must  form  one  of  these  figures  through 
the  other,  both  going  on  at  the  same 
time. 

Mary.  I  think  we  may  perhaps  manage 
it;  but  I  cannot  at  all  understand  how  the 
crystals  do.  It  seems  to  imply  so  much 
preconcerting  of  plan,  and  so  much  giving 
way  to  each  other,  as  if  they  really  were 
living. 


Cri^Btal  (auarrel6»  113 

L.  Yes,  it  implies  both  the  concurrence- 
and  compromise,  regulating  all  willfulness, 
of  design  :  and,  more  curious  still,  the  crys- 
tals do  not  always  give  way  to  each  other. 
They  show  exactly  the  same  varieties  of 
temper  that  human  creatures  might.  Some- 
times they  yield  the  required  place  with, 
perfect  grace  and  courtesy  ;  forming  fan- 
tastic, but  exquisitely  finished  groups  :  and 
sometimes  they  will  not  yield  at  all  ;  but 
fight  furiously  for  their  places,  losing  all 
shape  and  honor,  and  even  their  own  like- 
ness, in  the  contest. 

Mary.  But  is  not  that  wholly  wonderful  ? 
How  is  it  that  one  never  sees  it  spoken  of" 
in  books  ? 

L.  The  scientific  men  are  all  busy  in 
determining  the  constant  laws  under  which, 
the  struggle  takes  place ;  these  indefinite 
humors  of  the  elements  are  of  no  interest  to 
them.  And  unscientific  people  rarely  give- 
themselves  the  trouble  of  thinking  at  all, 
when  they  look  at  stones.  Not  that  it  is. 
of  much  use  to  think  ;  the  more  one  thinks, 
the  more  one  is  puzzled. 

Mary.  Surely  it  is  more  wonderful  than, 
anything  in  botany  t 

L.  Everything  has  its  own  wonders  ;  but, 
given  the  nature  of  the  plant,  it  is  easier  to- 
understand  what  a  flower  will  do,  and  why 
it  does  it,  than,  given  anything  we  as  yet 
know  of  stone-nature,  to  understand  what  a 
crystal  will  do,  and  why  it  does  it.     You  at 


114  '^l^c  ;EtbiC5  ot  tbe  Dust^ 

■once  admit  a  kind  of  volition  and  choice,  in 
the  flower ;  but  we  are  not  accustomed  to 
attribute  anything  of  the  kind  to  the  crystal. 
Yet  there  is,  in  reality,  more  likeness  to 
some  conditions  of  human  feeling  among 
stones  than  among  plants.  There  is  a  far 
greater  difference  between  kindly-tempered 
and  ill-tempered  crystals  of  the  same  min- 
eral, than  between  any  two  specimens  of  the 
same  flower  :  and  the  friendships  and  wars 
of  crystals  depend  more  definitely  and  curi- 
ously on  their  varieties  of  disposition,  than 
any  associations  of  flowers.  Here,  for  in- 
stance, is  a  good  garnet,  living  with  good 
mica ;  one  rich  red,  and  the  other  silver 
white  ;  the  mica  leaves  exactly  room  enough 
for  the  garnet  to  crystallize  comfortably  in  ; 
and  the  garnet  lives  happily  in  its  little 
white  houpse ;  fitted  to  it,  like  a  pholas  in 
its  cell  But  here  are  wicked  garnets  living 
^vith  wicked  mica.  See  what  ruin  they 
make  of  each  other  !  You  cannot  tell  which 
is  Avhich  ;  the  garnets  look  like  dull  red  stains 
on  the  crumbling  stones.  By  the  way,  I 
never  could  understand,  if  St.  Gothard  is  a 
Teal  saint,  why  he  can't  keep  his  garnets  in 
better  order.  These  are  all  under  his  care  ; 
but  I  suppose  there  are  too  many  of  them 
for  him  to  look  after.  The  streets  of  Airolo 
are  paved  with  them. 

May.    Paved  wnth  garnets  ? 

L.  With  mica-slate  and  garnets  ;  I  broke 
this  bit  out  of  a  paving  stone.     Now  garnets 


Crystal  Quarrels.  115 

and  mica  are  natural  friends,  and  generally 
fond  of  each  other ;  but  you  see  how  they 
•quarrel  when  they  are  ill  brought  up.  So  it 
is  always.  Good  crystals  are  friendly  with 
.almost  all  other  good  crystals,  however  little 
they  chance  to  see  of  each  other,  or  how- 
ever opposite  their  habits  may  be  ;  while 
wicked  crystals  quarrel  with  one  another, 
though  they  may  be  exactly  alike  in  habits, 
and  see  each  other  continually.  And  of 
course  the  wicked  crystals  quarrel  with  the 
good  ones. 

Isabel.   Then   do  the   good  ones  get   an- 
gry ? 

I  L.  No,  never  :  they  attend  to  their  own 
work  and  life ;  and  live  it  as  well  as  they 
can,  though  they  are  always  the  sufferers. 
Here,  for  instance,  is  a  rock  crystal  of  the 
purest  race  and  finest  temper,  who  was  born, 
unhappily  for  him,  in  a  bad  neighborhood, 
near  Beaufort  in  Savoy ;  and  he  has  had  to 
fight  with  vile  calcareous  mud  all  his  life. 
See  here,  when  he  was  but  a  child,  it  came 
down  on  him,  and  nearly  buried  him  ;  a 
weaker  crystal  would  have  died  in  despair  ; 
but  he  only  gathered  himself  together,  like 
Hercules  against  the  serpents,  and  threw  a  I 
layer  of  crystal  over  the  clay  ;  conquered  I 
it, — imprisoned  it, — and  lived  on.  Then,  / 
when  he  was  a  little  older,  came  more  clay  ; 
and  poured  itself  upon  him  here,  at  the  side  ; 
and  he  has  laid  crystal  over  that,  and  lived 
on,  in  his  purity.     Then  the  clay  came  on 


ii6  XTbe  BtbtC6  ot  tbe  Du6t* 

'  at  his  angles,  and  tried  to  cover  them,  and 
round  them  away ;  but  upon  that  he  threw 
out  buttress-crystals  at  his  angles,  all  as  true 
to  his  own  central  line  as  chapels  round  a 
cathedral  apse ;  and  clustered  them  round 
the  clay  ;  and  conquered  it  again.  At  last 
the  clay  came  on  at  his  summit,  and  tried 
to  blunt  his  summit  ;  but  he  could  not  en-^ 
dure  that  for  an  instant  ;  and  left  his  flanks 
all  rough,  but  pure ;  and  fought  the  clay  at 
his  crest,  and  built  crest  over  crest  and  peak 
over  peak,  till  the  clay  surrendered  at  last, 
and  here  is  his  summit,  smooth  and  pure, 
terminating  a  pyramid  of  alternate  clay  and 
crystal,  half  a  foot  high  ! 

Lily.  Oh,  how  nice  of  him  !  What  a 
dear,  brave  crystal  !  But  I  can't  bear  to  see 
his  flanks  all  broken,  and  the  clay  within 
them. 

L.  Yes  ;  it  was  an  evil  chance  for  him, 
the  being  born  to  such  contention  ;  there  are 
some  enemies  so  base  that  even  to  hold  them 
captive  is  a  kind  of  dishonor.  But  look, 
here  has  been  quite  a  different  kind  of  strug- 
gle :  the  adverse  power  has  been  more 
orderly,  and  has  fought  the  pure  crystal  in 
ranks  as  firm  as  its  own.  This  is  not  mere 
rage  and  impediment  of  crowded  evil  :  here 
is  a  disciplined  hostility  ;  army  against  army. 

Lily.   Oh,  but  this  is  much  more  beautiful  ! 

L.  Yes,  for  both  the  elements  have  true 
virtue  in  them  ;  it  is  a  pity  they  are  at  war^ 
but  they  war  grandly. 


Cri26tal  (auarrels^  117 

Mary.  But  is  this  the  same  clay  as  in  the 
other  crystal  ? 

L.  I  used  the  word  clay  for  shortness. 
In  both,  the  enemy  is  really  limestone  ;  but 
in  the  first,  disordered,  and  mixed  with  true 
clay  ;  while,  here,  it  is  nearly  pure  and  crys- 
tallizes into  its  own  primitive  form,  the 
oblique  six-sided  one,  which  you  know  :  and 
out  of  these  it  makes  regiments  ;  and  then 
squares  of  the  regiments,  and  so  charges  the 
rock  crystal,  literally  in  square  against  col- 
umn. 

Isabel.  Please,  please,  let  me  see.  And 
what  does  the  rock  crystal  do  ? 

L.  The  rock  crystal  seems  able  to  do 
nothing.  The  calcite  cuts  it  through  at  every 
charge.  Look  here, — and  here  !  The  love- 
liest crystal  in  the  whole  group  is  hewn  fairly 
into  two  pieces. 

Isabel.  Oh,  dear  ;  but  is  the  calcite  harder 
than  the  crystal  then  ? 

L.   No,  softer.     Very  much  softer. 

Mary.  But  then,  how  can  it  possibly  cut 
the  crystal.!^ 

L.  It  did  not  really  cut  it,  though  it 
passes  through  it.  The  two  were  formed 
together,  as  I  told  you  ;  but  no  one  knows 
how.  Still,  it  is  strange  that  this  hard  quartz 
has  in  all  cases  a  good-natured  way  with  it, 
of  yielding  to  everything  else.  All  sorts  of 
soft  things  make  nests  for  themselves  in  it ; 
and  it  never  makes  a  nest  for  itself  in  any- 
thing.    It  has  all  the  rough   outside   work; 


ii8  n:bc  ;i£tbic6  ot  tbe  BneU 

and  every  sort  of  cowardly  and  weak  mineral 
can  shelter  itself  within  it.  Look  ;  these  are 
hexagonal  plates  of  mica  ;  if  they  were  out- 
side of  this  crystal  they  would  break,  like 
burnt  paper;  but  they  are  inside  of  it, — 
nothing-  can  hurt  them, — the  crystal  has 
taken  them  into  its  very  heart,  keeping  all 
their  delicate  edges  as  sharp  as  if  they  were 
under  water,  instead  of  bathed  in  rock. 
Here  is  a  piece  of  branched  silver  :  you  can 
bend  it  with  a  touch  of  your  finger,  but  the- 
stamp  of  its  every  fiber  is  on  the  rock  in 
which  it  lay,  as  if  the  quartz  had  been  as 
soft  as  wool. 

Lily.  Oh,  the  good,  good  quartz  !  But 
does  it  never  get  inside  of  anything  ? 

L.  As  it  is  a  little  Irish  girl  who  asks,  I 
may  perhaps  answer,  without  being  laughed 
at,  that  it  gets  inside  of  itself  sometimes. 
But  I  don't  remember  seeing  quartz  make  a 
nest  for  itself  in  anything  else. 

Isabel.  Please,  there  was  .  something  I 
heard  you  talking  about,  last  time,  w^ith  Miss 
Mary.  I  was  at  my  lessons,  but  I  heard 
something  about  nests  ;  and  I  thought  it 
was  birds'  nests  ;  and  I  couldn't  help  listen- 
ing ;  and  then,  I  remember,  it  was  about 
''nests  of  quartz  in  granite."  I  remember, 
because  I  was  so  disappointed  ! 

L.  Yes,  mousie,  you  remember  quite- 
rightly ;  but  I  can't  tell  you  about  those 
nests  to-day,  nor  perhaps  to-morrow  ;  but 
there's  no  contradiction  between  my  saying- 


Crystal  (Sluarrela^  119 

then,  and  now  ;  I  will  show  you  that  there- 
is  not,  some  day.  Will  you  trust  me  mean- 
while ? 

Isabel.   Won't  I  ! 

L.  Well,  then,  look,  lastly,  at  this  piece 
Df  courtesy  in  quartz  ;  it  is  on  a  small  scale, 
3ut  wonderfully  pretty.  Here  is  nobly  born 
quartz  living  with  a  green  mineral,  called 
epidote  ;  and  they  are  immense  friends. 
Now,  you  see,  a  comparatively  large  and 
strong  quartz-crystal,  and  a  very  weak  and 
slender  little  one  of  epidote,  have  begun  to 
grow,  close  by  each  other,  and  sloping  un- 
luckily towards  each  other,  so  that  at  last 
they  meet.  They  cannot  go  on  growing 
together  :  the  quartz  crystal  is  five  times  as 
thick,  and  more  than  twenty  times  as- 
strong,*  as  the  epidote  ;  but  he  stops  at  once, 
just  in  the  very  crowning  moment  of  his  life, 
when  he  is  building  his  own  summit !  He 
lets  the  pale  little  film  of  epidote  grow  right 
past  him  ;  stopping  his  own  summit  for  it ; 
and  he  never  himself  grows  any  more. 

Lily  {after  some  silence  of  wonder^.  But 
is  the  quartz  never  wicked  then } 

L.  Yes,  but  the  wickedest  quartz  seems 
good-natured,  compared  to  other  things. 
Here  are  two  very  characteristic  examples  ; 
one  is  good  quartz,  living  with  good  pearl- 
spar,  and  the   other,    wicked  quartz,  living 

*  Quartz  is  not  much  harder  than  epidote  ;  the 
strength  is  only  supposed  to  be  in  some  proportion  to 
the  gquares  of  the  diameters. 


J 20  ^be  iStbics  ot  tbc  Bust 

with  wicked  pearl-spar.  In  both,  the  quartz 
yields  to  the  soft  carbonate  of  iron  :  but,  in 
the  first  place,  the  iron  takes  only  what  it 
needs  of  room ;  and  is  inserted  into  the 
planes  of  the  rock  crystal  with  such  precision 
that  you  must  break  it  away  before  you  can 
tell  whether  it  really  penetrates  the  quartz 
or  not  ;  while  the  crystals  of  iron  are  per- 
fectly formed,  and  have  a  lovely  bloom  on 
their  surface  besides.  But,  here,  when  the 
two  minerals  quarrel,  the  unhappy  quartz 
has  all  its  surface  jagged  and  torn  to  pieces, 
and  there  is  not  a  single  iron  crystal  whose 
shape  you  can  completely  trace.  But  the 
quartz  has  the  worst  of  it,  in  both  instances. 

Violet.  Might  we  look  at  that  piece  of 
broken  quartz  again,  with  the  weak  little 
film  across  it  ?  it  seems  such  a  strange  love- 
ly thing,  like  the  self-sacrifice  of  a  human 
being. 

L.  The  self-sacrifice  of  a  human  being  is 
not  a  lovely  thing,  Violet.  It  is  often  a 
necessary  and  noble  thing  ;  but  no  form  nor 
degree  of  suicide  can  be  ever  lovely. 

Violet.   But  self-sacrifice  is  not  suicide  ! 

L.   What  is  it  then  ? 

Violet.   Giving  up  one's  self  for  another. 

L.  Well ;  and  what  do  you  mean  by  ''giv- 
ing up  one's  self"? 

Violet.  Giving  up  one's  tastes,  one's  feel- 
ings, one'S'time,  one's  happiiaess,  and  so  on, 
to  make  others  happy. 

L.   I  hope  you  will  never  marry  anybody, 


Crystal  (Siuarrcls^  121 

Violet,  who  expects  you  to  make  him  happy 
in  that  way. 

Violet  (hesitating).     In  what  way  ? 

L.  By  giving  up  your  tastes,  and  sacrific- 
ing your  feehngs,  and  happiness. 

Violet.  No,  no,  I  don't  mean  that ;  but 
you  know,  for  other  people,  one  must. 

L.  For  people  who  don't  love  you,  and 
whom  you  know  nothing  about?  Be  it  so  ; 
but  how  does  this  ' '  giving  up  ''  differ  from 
suicide  then } 

Violet.  Why,  giving  up  one  s  pleasures  is 
not  killing  one's  self  .^^ 

L.  Giving  up  wrong  pleasure  is  not ;  nei- 
ther is  it  self-sacrifice,  but  self-culture.  But 
giving  up  right  pleasure  is.  If  you  surrender 
the  pleasure  of  walking,  your  foot  will 
wither :  you  may  as  well  cut  it  off :  if  you 
surrender  the  pleasure  of  seeing,  your  eyes 
will  soon  be  unable  to  bear  the  light ;  you 
may  as  well  pluck  them  out.  And  to  maim 
yourself  is  partly  to  kill  yourself.  Do  but 
^o  on  maiming,  and  you  will  soon   slay. 

Violet.  But  why  do  you  make  me  think 
of  that  verse  then,  about  the  foot  and  the 
eye  ? 

L.  You  are  indeed  commanded  to  cut  off 
and  to  pluck  out,  if  foot  or  eye  offend  you  ; 
but  why  should  they  offend  you  } 

Violet.  I  don't  know  ;  I  never  quite  un- 
derstood that. 

L.  Yet  it  is  a  sharp  order  ;  one  needing  to 
be  well  understood  if  it  is  to  be  well  obeyed  I 


122  ^be  JBtbiC6  of  tbe  WmU 

When  Helen  sprained  her  ankle  the  other 
day  you  saw  how  strongly  it  had  to  be 
bandaged  ;  that  is  to  say,  prevented  from  all 
work,  to  recover  it.  But  the  bandage  was 
not  "  lovely,'*' 

Violet.   No,  indeed. 

L.  And  if  her  foot  had  been  crushed,  or 
diseased,  or  snake-bitten,  instead  of  sprained 
it  might  have  been  needful  to  cut  it  off. 
But  the  amputation  would  not  have  been 
**  lovely." 

Violet.   No. 

L.  Well,  if  eye  and  foot  are  dead  already 
and  betray  you, — if  the  light  that  is  in  you  be 
darkness,  and  you  feet  run  into  mischief,  or 
are  taken  in  the  snare, — it  is  indeed  time  to 
pluck  out,  and  cut  off,  I  think  :  but,  so  crip- 
pled, you  can  never  be  what  you  might  have 
been  otherwise.  You  enter  into  life,  at  best, 
halt  or  maimed ;  and  the  sacrifice  is  not 
beautiful,  though  necessary. 

Violet  (cTf/er  a  pause).  But  when  one 
sacrifices  one's  self  for  others  .? 

L.   Why  not  rather  others  for  you  ? 

Violet.   Oh  !  but  I  couldn't  bear  that. 

L.   Then  why  should  they  bear  it } 

Dora  {bursting  in  indignant).  And  Ther- 
mopylae, and  Protesilaus,  and  Marcus  Curtius^ 
and  Arnold  de  W^inkelried,  and  Iphigenia  and 
Jephthah's  daughter.? 

L.  {sustaining  the  ifidignation  unmoved)* 
And  the  Samaritan  woman's  son.? 

Dora.  Which  Smaritan  woman's  ? 


Cri26tal  Quarrels^  123 

L.   Read  2  Kings  vi.  29. 

Dora,  (obeys).  How  horrid !  As  if  we 
meant  anything  like  that ! 

L.  You  don't  seem  to  me  to  know  in  the 
least  what  you  do  mean,  children.  What 
practical  difference  is  there  between  *'  that," 
and  what  you  are  talking  about  ?  The 
Samaritan  children  had  no  voice  of  their  own 
in  the  business,  it  is  true  ;  but  neither  had 
Iphigenia ;  the  Greek  girl  was  certainly^ 
neither  boiled,  nor  eaten ;  but  that  only 
makes  a  difference  in  the  dramatic  effect ;. 
not  in  the  principle. 

Dora  (biting  her  Up),  Well,  then,  tell  us 
what  we  ought  to  mean.  As  if  you  didn't 
teach  it  all  to  us,  and  mean  it  yourself,  at 
this  moment,  more  than  we  do,  if  you. 
wouldn't  be  tiresome  ! 

L.  I  mean,  and  always  have  meant, 
simply  this,  Dora  ; — that  the  will  of  God 
respecting  us  is  that  we  shall  live  by  each 
other's  happiness,  and  life  ;  not  by  each 
other's  misery,  or  death.  I  made  you  read 
that  verse  which  so  shocked  you  just  now, 
because  the  relations  of  parent  and  child  are- 
typical  of  all  beautiful  human  help.  A  child 
may  have  to  die  for  its  parents  ;  but  the 
purpose  of  Heaven  is  that  it  shall  rather  live 
for  them  • — that,  not  by  its  sacrifice,  but  by 
its  strength,  its  joy,  its  force  of  being,  it  shall 
be  to  them  renewal  of  strength  ;  and  as  the 
arrow  in  the  hand  of  the  giant.  So  it  is  in 
all   other  right    relations.     Men    help   each 


124  ^^^  ;6tbiC6  ot  tbe  Dust 

other  by  their  joy,  not  by  their  sorrow. 
They  are  not  intended  to  slay  themselves 
for  each  other,  but  to  strengthen  themselves 
for  each  other.  And  among  the  many  ap- 
parently beautiful  things  which  turn,  through 
mistaken  use,  to  utter  evil,  I  am  not  sure 
but  that  the  thoughtlessly  meek  and  self- 
sacrificing  spirit  of  good  men  must  be  named 
as  one  of  the  fatalist.  They  have  so  often 
been  taught  that  there  is  a  virtue  in  mere 
suffering,  as  such  ;  and  foolishly  to  hope  that 
^ood  may  be  brought  by  Heaven  out  of  all 
on  which  Heaven  itself  has  set  the  stamp  of 
evil,  that  we  may  avoid  it, — that  they  accept 
pain  and  defeat  as  if  these  were  their  ap- 
pointed portion  ;  never  understanding  that 
their  defeat  is  not  the  less  to  bemournedbe- 
cause  it  is  more  fatal  to  their  enemies  than 
to  them.  The  one  thing  that  a  good  man 
has  to  do,  and  to  see  done,  is  justice  ;  he  is 
neither  to  slay  himself  nor  others  cause- 
lessly :  so  far  from  denying  himself,  since 
he  is  pleased  by  good,  he  is  to  do  his  utmost 
to  get  his  pleasure  accomplished.  And  I 
only  wish  there  were  strength,  fidelity,  and 
sense  enough,  among  the  good  Englishmen 
of  this  day,  to  render  it  possible  for  them  to 
band  together  in  a  vowed  brotherhood,  to 
enforce,  by  strength  of  heart  and  hand,  the 
doing  of  human  justice  among  all  who  came 
within  their  sphere.  And  finally,  for  your 
own  teaching,  observe,  although  there  may 
l)e   need  for  much  self-sacrifice   and  self- 


Crystal  (auarrel6»  125 

denial  in  the  correction  of  faults  of  character,, 
the  moment  the  character  is  formed,  the  self- 
denial  ceases.  Nothing  is  really  well  done^. 
which  it  costs  you  pain  to  do. 

Violet.  But  surely,  sir,  you  are  always- 
pleased  with  us  when  we  try  to  please  others, 
and  not  ourselves? 

L.  My  dear  child,  in, the  daily  course  and 
discipline  of  right  life,  we  must  continually 
and  reciprocally  submit  and  surrender  in  alL 
kind  and  courteous  and  affectionate  ways  : 
and  these  submissions  and  ministries  to  each, 
other,  of  which  you  all  know  (none  better) 
the  practice  and  the  preciousness,  are  as. 
good  for  the  yielder  as  the  receiver  :  they 
strengthen  and  perfect  as  much  as  they 
soften  and  refine.  But  the  real  sacrifice  of  alL 
our  strength,  or  life,  or  happiness  to  others 
(though  it  may  be  needed,  and  though  alL 
brave  creatures  hold  their  lives  in  their  hand, 
to  be  given,  when  such  need  comes,  as 
frankly  as  a  soldier  gives  his  life  in  battle), 
is  yet  always  a  mournful  and  momentary 
necessity  :  not  the  fulfillment  of  the  contin- 
uous law  of  being.  Self-sacrifice  which  is 
sought  after,  and  triumphed  in,  is  usually 
foolish  ;  and  calamitous  in  its  issue  :  and  by 
the  sentimental  proclamation  and  pursuit  of 
it,  good  people  have  not  only  made  most  of 
their  own  lives  useless,  but  the  whole  frame- 
work of  their  religion  so  hollow,  that  at  this. 
moment,  while  the  English  nation,  with  its 
lips,  pretends  to  teach  every  man  to    ''  love 


126  '^bc  JBVoics  ot  tbc  I>\X6U 

his  neighbor  as  himself,"  with  its  hands  and 
feet  it  clutches  and  tramples  like  a  wild 
beast ;  and  practically  lives,  every  soul  of  it 
that  can,  on  other  peoples  labor.  Briefly, 
Ihe  constant  duty  of  every  man  to  his  fellows 
is  to  ascertain  his  own  powers  and  special 
gifts  ;  and  to  strengthen  them  for  the  help 
of  others.  Do  you  think  Titian  would  have 
helped  the  world  better  by  denying  himself, 
.and  not  painting ;  or  Casella  by  denying 
himself,  and  not  singing  !  The  real  virtue 
is  to  be  ready  to  sing  the  moment  people 
ask  us  ;  as  he  was,  even  in  purgatory.  The 
very  word  "  virtue"  means  not  "  conduct  " 
l3ut  ''strength,"  vital  energy  in  the  heart. 
Were  not  you  reading  about  that  group  of 
words  beginning  with  V, — vital,  virtuous, 
vigorous,  and  so  on, — in  Max  Miiller,  the 
other  day,  Sibyl  ?  Can't  you  tell  the  others 
•about  it  ? 

Sibyl.   No,  I  can't ;  will  you  tell  us,  please  ? 

L.  Not  now,  it  is  too  late.  Come  to  me 
some  idle  time  to-morrow,  and  I'll  tell  you 
about  it,  if  all's  well.  But  the  gist  of  it  is, 
children,  that  you  should  at  least  know  two 
Latin  words  ;  recollect  that  ''mors"  means 
death  and  delaying  ;  and  "vita"  means  life 
and  growing  :  and  try  always,  not  to  mor- 
tify yourselves,  but  to  vivify  yourselves. 

Violet.  But,  then,  are  we  not  to  mortify 
our  earthly  affections. '^  and  surely  we  are  to 
sacrifice  ourselves,  at  least  in  God's  service, 
if  not  in  man's  ? 


Crystal  Quarr^.o^  i^hj 

L.  Really,  Violet,  we  are  g-etting  too  seri- 
ous. I've  given  you  enough  ethics  for  one 
talk,  I  think  !  Do  let  us  have  a  little  play. 
Lily,  what  were  you  so  busy  about,  at  the 
ant-hill  in  the  wood,  this  morning  ? 

Lily.  Oh,  it  was  the  ants  who  were  busy, 
not  I  ;  I  was  only  trying  to  help  them  a 
little. 

L.  And  they  wouldn't  be  helped,  I  sup- 
pose ? 

Lily.  No,  indeed.  I  can't  think  why 
ants  are  always  so  tiresome,  when  one  tries 
to  help  them  !  They  were  carrying  bits  of 
stick,  as  fast  as  they  could,  through  a  piece 
of  grass  ;  and  pulling  and  pushing,  so  hard  ; 
and  tumbhng  over  and  over, — it  made  one 
quite  pity  them  ;  so  I  took  some  of  the  bits 
of  stick,  and  carried  them  forward  a  little, 
where  I  thought  they  wanted  to  put  them  ; 
but  instead  of  being  pleased,  they  left  them 
directly,  and  ran  about  looking  quite  angry 
and  frightened  ;  and  at  last  ever  so  many 
of  them  got  up  my  sleeves,  and  bit  me  all 
over,  and  I  had  to  come  away. 

L.  I  couldn't  think  what  you  were  about. 
I  saw  your  French  grammar  lying  on  the 
grass  behind  you,  and  thought  perhaps  you 
had  gone  to  ask  the  ants  to  hear  you  a 
Prench  verb. 

Isabel.   Ah  !  but  you  didn't,  though  ! 

L.  Why  not,  Isabel  ?  I  knew,  well  enough, 
Lily  couldn't  learn  that  verb  by  herself 

Isabel.  No  ;  but  the  ants  couldn't  help  her. 


128  TLbc  JBtbiC6  of  tbe  2)U6t 

L.   Are  you  sure  the  ants  could  not  have 
helped  you,  Lily  ? 

Lily  \thinking).    I  ought  to  have   learned 
something"  from  them  perhaps. 

L.    But  none  of  them  left  their  sticks  to  help 
you  through  the  irregular  verb  ? 

Lily.    No,  indeed.      {Laughing,  with  some 
others. ) 

L.  What  are  you  laughing  at,  children  }  I 
cannot  see  why  the  ants  should  not  have 
left  their  tasks  to  help  Lily  in  hers, — since 
here  is  Violet  thinking  she  ought  to  leave 
her  tasks,  to  help  God  in  His.  Perhaps, 
however,  she  takes  Lily's  more  modest 
view,  and  thinks  only  that  "  He  ought  to 
learn  something  from  her.'' 
{Tears  in  Violet's  eyes,') 

Dora  {scarlet).     It's  too  bad — it's  a  shame  ; 
— poor  Violet  ! 

L.  My  dear  children,  there's  no  reason 
who  one  should  be  so  red,  and  the  other  so 
pale,  merely  because  you  are  made  for  a 
moment  to  feel  the  absurdity  of  a  phrase 
which  you  have  been  taught  to  use,  in  com- 
mon with  half  the  religious  world.  There  is 
but  one  way  in  which  man  can  ever  help 
God — that  is,  by  letting  God  help  him:  and 
there  is  no  way  in  which  His  name  is  more 
guiltily  taken  in  vain,  than  by  calling  the 
abandonment  of  our  own  work,  the  per- 
\  form  an  ce  of  His. 

God   is  a  kind   Father.      He    sets  us  all  in 
the  places  where  He  wishes  us  to  be  em- 


Crystal  ®uarrel0»  129 

ployed  ;  and  that  employment  is  truly 
''our  Father's  business."  He  chooses  work 
for  every  creature  which  will  be  delightful 
to  them,  if  they  do  it  simply  and  humbly. 
He  gives  us  always  strength  enough,  and 
sense  enough,  for  what  He  wants  us  to  do  ; 
if  we  either  tire  ourselves  or  puzzle  ourselves, 
it  is  ourselves,  it  is  our  own  fault.  And  we 
may  always  be  sure,  whatever  we  are  doing, 
that  we  cannot  be  pleasing  Him,  if  we  are 
not  happy  ourselves.  Now,  away  with  you, 
children  ;  and  be  as  happy  as  you  can.  And 
when  you  cannot,  at  least  don't  plume  your- 
selves upon  pouting. 

9 


LECTURE  7. 

HOME  VIRTUES. 


LECTURE  VII. 

HOME    VIRTUES. 
By  the  fireside  i  in  the  Drawing-room.    Evening, 

Dora.  Now,  the  curtains  are  drawn,  and 
the  fire's  bright,  and  here's  your  arm-chair — 
and  you're  to  tell  us  all  about  what  you 
promised. 

L.   All  about  what } 

Dora.   All  about  virtue. 

Kathleen.  Yes,  and  about  the  words  that 
begin  with  V. 

L.  I  heard  you  singing  about  a  word  that 
begins  with  V,  in  the  playground,  this  morn- 
ing, Miss  Katie. 

Kathleen.   Me  singing  ! 

Mary.   Oh,  tell  us — tell  us. 

L.    "Vilikens  and  his — " 

Kathleen  {stopping  his  mouth).  Oh. !  please 
don't.      Where  were  you  1 

Isabel.  I'm  sure  I  wish  I  had  known  where 
he  was  !  We  lost  him  among  the  rhododen- 
drons, and  I  don't  know  where  he  got  to  ; 
oh,  you  naughty — naughty — (climbs  on  his 
knee). 

Dora.   Now,  Isabel,  we  really. want  to  talk. 


134  ^t)e  iBtbiCB  of  tbe  WixsU 

L.   /don't 

Dora.  Oh,  but  you  must.  You  promised, 
you  know. 

L.  Yes,  if  all  was  well ;  but  all's  ill.  I'm 
tired  and  cross  ;  and  I  won't. 

Dora.   You're  not  a  bit   tired,   and   you're 

not  Grosser  than  two  sticks  ;  and  we'll  make 

you  talk,  if  you  were  crosser  than  six.   Come 

here,  Egypt  ;  and  get  on  the  other  side  of  him. 

(Egypt  fakes  up  a  comma?iding  position 

near  the  hearth-brush.) 

Dora    (reviewing  her  forces).     Now,  Lily, 
come  and  sit  on  the  rug  in  front. 
(Lily  does  as  she  is  hid. ) 

L.  (seeing  he  has  no  chance  against  the 
odds. )  Well,  well ;  but  I'm  really  tired.  Go 
and  dance  a  little,  first  ;  and  let  me  think. 

Dora.  No  ;  you  mustn't  think.  You  will 
be  wanting  to  make  us  think  next ;  that  will 
be  tiresome. 

L.  Well,  go  and  dance  first,  to  get  quit  of 
thinking  :  and  then  I'll  talk  as  long  as  you 
like. 

Dora.  Oh,  but  we  can't  dance  to-night. 
There  isn't  time  ;  and  we  want  to  hear  about 
virtue. 

L.  Let  me  see  a  little  of  it  first.  Dancing 
is  the  first  of  girl's  virtues. 

Egypt.    Indeed  !     And  the  second  } 

L.   Dressing. 

Egypt.  Now,  you  needn't  say  that  !  I 
mended  that  tear  the  first  thmg  before  break- 
fast  this  morning. 


'  1bome  \Dlrtue0.  135 

L.  I  cannot  otherwise  express  the  ethical 
principle,  Egypt;  whether  you  have  mended 
your  gown  or  not. 

Dora.  Now  don't  be  tiresome.  We  really 
must  hear  about  virtue,  please  ;  seriously. 

L.  Well.  I'm  telling  you  about  it,  as  fast 
as  I  can. 

Dora.  What  the  first  of  girls'  virtues  is 
dancing  .^ 

L.  More  accurately,  it  is  wishing  to  dance, 
and  not  wishing  to  tease,  nor  hear  about 
virtue. 

Dora  {to  Egypt).      Isn't  he  cross  } 

Egypt.  How  many  balls  must  we  go  to  in 
the  season,  to  be  perfectly  virtuous  1 

L.  As  many  as  you  can  without  losing 
your  color.  But  I  did  not  say  you  should 
wish  to  go  to  balls.  I  said  you  should  be 
always  wanting  to  dance. 

Egypt.  So  we  do  ;  but  everybody  says  it 
is  very  wrong. 

L.    Why,  Egypt,  I  thought — 

"  There  was  a  lady  once, 
That  would  not  be  a  queen, — that  would  she  not 
For  all  the  mud  m  Egypt." 

You  were  complaining  the  other  day  of 
having  to  go  out  a  great  deal  oftener  than 
you  liked. 

Egypt.  Yes,  so  I  was  ;  but  then,  it  isn't 
to  dance.  There's  no  room  to  dance  :  it's — 
(Pausing  to  consider  what  it  is  for). 


136  ^be  iBtbicB  ot  tbe  S)u6t, 

L.  It  is  only  to  be  seen,  I  suppose.  Well, 
there's  no  harm  in  that.  Girls  ought  to  like 
to  be  seen. 

Dora  (her  eyes  gashing).  Now,  you  don't 
mean  that ;  and  you're  too  provoking  ;  and 
we  won't  dance  again,  for  a  month. 

L.  It  will  answ^er  every  purpose  of  re- 
venge, Dora,  if  you  only  banish  me  to  the 
library  ;  and  dance  by  yourselves  ;  but  I 
don't  think  Jessie  and  Lily  will  agree  to  that. 
You  like  me  to  see  you  dancing,  don't  you, 
Lily  ? 

Lily.  Yes,  certainly, — when  we  do  it 
rightly. 

L.  And  besides.  Miss  Dora,  if  young  ladies 
really  do  not  want  to  be  seen,  they  should 
take  care  not  let  their  eyes  flash  when  they 
dislike  what  people  say  :  and,  more  than 
that,  it  is  all  nonsense  from  beginning  to 
end,  about  not  wanting  to  be  seen.  I  don't 
know  any  more  tiresome  flower  in  the  bor- 
ders than  your  especially  "  modest  "  snow- 
drop ;  which  one  always  has  to  stoop  down 
and  take  all  sorts  of  tiresome  trouble  with, 
and  nearly  break  its  poor  little  head  off, 
before  you  can  see  it,  and  then,  half  of  it 
is  not  worth  seeing.  Girls  should  be  like 
daisies  ;  nice  and  white,  with  an  edge  of  red, 
if  you  look  close  ;  making  the  ground  bright 
wherever  they  are  ;  knowing  simply  and 
quietly  that  they  do  it,  and  are  meant  to  do 
it,  and  that  it  would  be  very  wrong  if  they 
didn't  do  it.     Not  want  to  be  seen,  indeed! 


Dome  lt)irtuc6. 


^37 


How  long"  were  you  in  doing  up  your  back 
hair  this  afternoon,  Jessie  ? 

(Jessie  not  immediately  answering,  Dora 
comes  to  her  assistance. ) 

Dora.  Not  above  three-quarters  of  an 
hour,  I  think,  Jess? 

Jessie  {putting  her  finger  up).  Now,  Doro- 
thy, ^o//  needn't  talk,  you  know  ! 

L.  I  know  she  needn't,  Jessie  ;  I  shall 
ask  her  about  those  dark  plaits  presently. 
(Dora  looks  round  to  see  if  there  is  any  way 
opeii  for  retreat.)  But  never  mind;  it  was 
Avorth  the  time,  whatever  it  was ,  and  no- 
body will  ever  mistake  that  golden  wreath 
for  a  chignon  :  but  if  you  don't  want  it  to 
be  seen  you  had  better  wear  a  cap. 

Jessie.  Ah,  now,  are  you  really  going  to 
do  nothing  but  play }  And  we  all  have  been 
thinking,  and  thinking,  all  day  ;  and  hoping 
you  would  tell  us  things  ;  and  now — !  • 

L.  And  now  I  am  telling  you  things,  and 
true  things,  and  things  good  for  you  ;  and 
you  won't  believe  me.  You  might  as  well 
have  let  me  go  to  sleep  at  once,  as  I  wanted 
to.  {Endeavors  again  to  make  himself  com- 
fortahle. ) 

Isabel.  Oh,  no,  no,  you  sha'n't  go  to  sleep^ 
you  naughty  ! — Kathleen,  come  here. 

L.  (knowing  what  he  has  to  expect  z/"  Kath- 
leen comes.)  Get  away,  Isabel,  you're  too 
heavy.  {Sitting  up.)  What  have  I  been 
saying .? 

Dora.   I  do  believe  he  has  been  asleep  all 


138  TLbc  Btbics  ot  tbe  Dust* 

the  time  !  You  never  heard  anything  like 
the  things  you've  been  saying. 

L.  Perhaps  not.  If  you  have  heard  them, 
and  anything  Hke  them,  it  is  all  I  want. 

Egypt.  Yes,  but  we  don't  understand,  and 
you  know  we  don't  ;   and  we  want  to. 

L.    What  did  I  say  first  ? 

Dora.  That  the  first  virtue  of  girls  was 
wanting  to  go  to  balls. 

L.    I  said  nothing  of  the  kind. 

Jessie.  '' Always  wanting  to  dance, ''  you 
said. 

L.  Yes,  and  that's  true.  Their  first  virtue 
is  to  be  intensely  happy  ; — so  happy  that 
they  don't  know  what  to  do  with  themselves 
for  happiness, — and  dance,  instead  of  walk- 
ing.    Don't  you  recollect  *' Louisa," 

"  No  fountain  from  a  rocky  cave 
E'er  tripped  with  foot  so  free ; 
She  seemed  as  happy  as  a  wave 
That  dances  on  the  sea." 

A  girl  is  always  like  that,  when  everything's 
right  with  her. 

Violet.  But,  surely,  one  must  be  sad 
sometimes  ? 

L.  Yes,  Violet  ;  and  dull  sometimes,  and 
stupid  sometimes,  and  cross  sometimes. 
What  must  be,  must  ;  but  it  is  always  either 
our  own  fault,  or  somebody  else's.  The  last 
and  worst  thing  that  can  be  said  of  a  nation 
is,  that  it  has  made  its  young  girls  sad,  and 
weary. 


Dome  X)nt\xce.  139 

May.  But  I  am  sure  I  have  heard  a  great 
many  g-ood  people  speak  against  dancing  ? 

L.  Yes,  May  ;  but  it  does  not  follow  they 
were  wise  as  well  as  good.  I  suppose  they^ 
think  Jeremiah  liked  better  to  have  to  write 
Lamentations  for  his  people,  than  to  have 
to  write  that  promise  for  them,  which  every- 
body seems  to  hurry  past,  that  they  may  get 
on  quickly  to  the  verse  about  Rachel  weep- 
ing for  her  children  ;  though  the  verse  they 
pass  is  the  counter  blessing  to  that  one  : 
*'Then  shall  the  virgin  rejoice  in  the  dance  ; 
and  both  young  men  and  old  together  ;  and 
I  will  turn  their  mourning  into  joy." 

{The  children  get  very  serious ^   hut  look- 
at  each  other  as  if  pleased. ) 

Mary.  They  understand  now  :  but,  do  you 
know  what  you  said  next } 

L.  Yes  ;  I  was  not  more  than  half  asleep. 
I  said  their  second  virtue  was  dressing. 

Mary.    Well !  what  did  you  mean  by  that? 

L.   What  i\oyou  mean  by  dressing.? 

Mary.   Wearing  fine  clothes. 

L.  Ah  !  there's  the  mistake.  /  mean 
wearing  plain  ones. 

Mary.  Yes,  I  dare  say  !  but  that's  not  what 
girls  understand  by  dressing,  you  know. 

L.  I  can't  help  that  If  they  understand 
by  dressing,  buying  dresses,  perhaps  they 
also  understand  by  drawing,  buying  pictures. 
But  when  I  hear  them  say  they  can  draw,  I 
understand  that  they  can  make  a  drawing  ; 
and  when  I  hear  them  say  they  can  dress,  I 


J40  ^bc  BtbiC6  otjbe  Bust, 

^understand  that  they  can  make  a  dress  and 
— which  is  quite  as  difficult — wear  one. 

Dora.  I'm  not  sure  about  the  making  ;  for 
the  wearing,  we  can  all  wear  them — out, 
l)efore  anybody  expects  it. 

Egypt  {aside  to  L.,  piieoiisly).  Indeed  I 
have  mended  that  torn  flounce  quite  neatly  ; 
look  if  I  haven't  J 

L.  {aside  to  Egypt).  All  right  ;  don't  be 
afraid.  {Aloud  to  Dora.)  Yes,  doubtless; 
but  you  know  that  is  only  a  slow  way  of 
.//^/dressing. 

Dora.  Then,  we  are  all  to  learn  dress- 
making, are  w^e } 

L.  Yes  ;  and  always  to  dress  yourselves 
beautifully — not  finely,  unless  on  occasion  ; 
but  then  very  finely  and  beautifully,  too. 
Also,  you  are  to  dress  as  many  other  people 
as  you  can  ;  and  to  teach  them  how  to  dress, 
if  they  don't  know;  and  to  consider  every 
ill-dressed  woman  or  child  whom  you  see 
anywhere,  as  a  personal  disgrace  ;  and  to 
get  at  them,  somehow,  until  everybody  is 
as  beautifully  dressed  as  birds. 

{Silence  ;  the  children  drawing  their 
breaths  hard,  as  if  they  had  come  from 
under  a  shower  hath. ) 

L.  {seeing  objections  begin  to  express  them- 
selves  in  the  eyes).  Now  you  needn't  say 
you  can't ;  for  you  can  and  it's -what  you 
ivere  meant  to  do,  always  ;  and  to  dress 
your  houses  and  your  gardens,  too  ;  and  to 
•do  very  little  else,  I  believe,  except  singing  ; 


Ibomc  IDlrtuee*  141 

and  dancing,  as  we  said,  of  course  and — one- 
thing  more. 

Dora.  Our  third  and  last  virtue,  I  suppose  ?" 

L.   Yes  ;  on  Violet's  system  of  triplicities. 

Dora.  Well,  we  are  prepared  for  anything 
now.      What  is  it .'' 

L.   Cooking. 

Dora.  Cardinal,  indeed  !  If  only  Beatrice 
were  here  with  her  seven  handmaids,  that 
she  might  see  what  a  fine  eighth  we  had 
found  for  her  ! 

Mary.  And  the  interpretation  .?  What  does 
^'  cooking  "  mean  } 

L.  It  means  the  knowledge  of  Medea,  and. 
of  Circe,  and  of  Calypso,  and  of  Helen,  and 
ofRebekah,  and  of  the  Queen  of  Sheba.  It. 
means  the  knowledge  of  all  herbs,  and  fruits, 
and  balms,  and  spices  ;  and  of  all  that  is  heal- 
ing and  sweet  in  fields  and  groves,  and- 
savory  in  meats  ;  it  means  carefulness,  and. 
inventiveness,  and  watchfulness,  and  will- 
ingness, and  readiness  of  appliance  ;  it  means- 
the  economy  of  your  great-grandmothers, 
and  the  science  of  modern  chemists  ;  it  means, 
much  tasting,  and  no  wasting  ;  it  means 
English  thoroughness,  and  French  art,  and 
Arabian  hospitality  ;  it  means,  in  fine,  that 
you  are  to  be  perfectly  and  always  ''ladies '*' 
— "loaf-givers,"  and,  as  you  are  to  see,  im- 
peratively, that  everybody  has  something- 
pretty  to  put  on, — so  you  are  to  see,  yet: 
more  imperatively,  that  everybody  has  some- 
thing nice  to  eat. 


142  Zbc  iBtbice  of  tbe  5)u6t^ 

(Another  pause,  a?id  long  drawn  breath.) 

Dora  {slowly  recovering  herself  to  Egypt). 
We  had  better  have  let  him  go  to  sleep,  I 
think,  after  all ! 

L.  You  had  better  let  the  younger  ones  go 
to  sleep  now  :  for  I  haven't  half  done. 

Isabel  {panic-struck).  Oh  !  please,  please  ! 
just  one  quarter  of  an  hour. 

L.    No,  Isabel ;  I  cannot  say  what  I've  got 

to  say  in  a  quarter  of  an  hour  :  and  it  is  too 

hard  for  you,  besides  : — you  would  be  lying 

awake,  and  trying  to  make  it  out,  half  the 

.night.      That  will  never  do. 

Isabel.  Oh,  please  ! 

L.  It  would  please  me  exceedingly, 
mousie  :  but  there  are  times  when  we  must 
both  be  displeased  ;  more's  the  pity.  Lily 
may  stay  for  half  an  hour,  if  she  likes. 

Lily.  I  can't,  because  Isey  never  goes  to 
«leep,  if  she  is  waiting  for  me  to  come. 

Isabel.  Oh,  yes,  Lily  ;  I'll  go  to  sleep  to- 
night.     I  will,  indeed. 

Lily.  Yes,  it's  very  likely,  Isey,  with 
those  fine  round  eyes  !  {To  L.)  You'll  tell 
me  something  of  what  you've  been  saying 
to-morrow,  won't  you } 

L.  No,  I  won't,  Lily.  You  must  choose. 
Jt's  only  in  Miss  Edgeworth's  novels  that 
one  can  do  right,  and  have  one's  cake  and 
sugar  afterwards,  as  well  (not  that  I  consider 
the  dilemma,  to-night,  so  grave). 

(Lily,  sighing,  takes  Isabel's  hand.) 

Yes,    Lily  dear,    it  will  be  better,   in  the 


IDome  lt)trtue0» 


143 


outcome  of  it,  so,  than  if  you  were  to  hear 
ah  the  talks  that  ever  were  talked,  and  all 
the  stories  that  ever  were  told.  Good-night, 
(^Jlie  door  leading  io  the  C07ide7n?ied  cells 
of  the  Dormitory  closes  on  Lily,  Isabel, 
Florrie,  and  other  diminutive  and  sub- 
missive victi7ns.y 

Jessie  (after  a  pause).  Vvliy,  I  thought 
you  were  so  fond  of  jMiss  Edgeworth. 

L.  So  I  am  ;  and  so  you  ought  all  to  be. 
I  can  read  her  over  and  over  again,  without 
ever  tiring ;  there's  no  one  whose  every 
page  is  so  full,  and  so  delightful  ;  no  one 
who  brings  you  into  the  company  of  pleas- 
anter  or  v/iscr  people  ;  no  one  v/ho  tells  you 
more  truly  how  to  do  right.  And  it  is  very 
nice,  in  the  midst  of  a  wild  world,  to  have 
the  very  ideal  of  poetical  justice  done  always 
to  one's  hand  : — to  have  everybody  found 
out,  v/ho  tells  lies  ;  and  everybody  decorated 
with  a  red  libbon,  who  doesn't  ;  and  to  see 
the  good  Laura,  who  gave  away  her  half 
sovereign,  receiving  a  grand  ovation  from 
an  entire  dinner  party  disturbed  for  the  pur- 
pose ;  and  poor,  dear,  little  Rosamond,  who 
chooses  purple  jars  instead  of  new  shoes, 
left  at  last  without  either  her  shoes  or  her 
bottle.  But  it  isn't  life  :  and,  in  the  way 
children  might  easily  understand  it,  it  isn't 
morals. 

Jessie,  How  do  you  mean  we  might  under- 
stand it .? 

L.   You    might     think     Miss    Edgeworth 


144  ^t)e  iBtbics  ot  tbe  BneU 

meant  that  the  rig-ht  was  to  be  done  mainly 

because  one  is  always  rewarded  for  doing  it. 

/It   is   an  injustice   to  her  to   say  that;  her 

I  heroines  always  do  right  simply  for  its  own 

I  sake,  as  they  should  ;  and  her  examples  of 

I  conduct  and  motive  are  wholly  admirable. 

But  her  representation  of  events  is  false  and 

misleading.      Her  good  characters  never  are 

brought  into  the  deadly  trial  of  goodness, — 

the  doing  right,  and  suffering  for  it,    quite 

finally.      And  that  is  life,  as  God  arranges  it. 

**  Taking  up  one's    cross"  does    not  at  all 

mean  having  ovations  at  dinnerparties,  and 

being  put  over  everybody  else's  head. 

Dora.  But  what  docs  it  mean  then  ?  That 
is  just  what  we  couldn't  understand,  when 
you  were  telling  us  about  not  sacrificing 
ourselves,  yesterday. 

L.  My  dear,  it  means  simply  that  you  are 
to  go  the  road  which  you  see  to  be  the 
straight  one  ;  carrying  whatever  you  find  is 
given  you  to  carry,  as  well  and  stoutly  as 
you  can  ;  without  making  faces,  or  calling 
people  to  come  and  look  at  you.  Above  all, 
you  are  neither  to  load,  nor  unload,  your- 
self; nor  cut  your  cross  to  your  own  liking. 
Some  people  think  it  would  be  better  for 
them  to  have  it  large  ;  and  many,  that  they 
could  carry  it  much  faster  if  it  were  small  ; 
and  even  those  who  like  it  largest  are  usually 
very  particular  about  its  being  ornamental, 
and  made  of  the  best  ebony.  But  all  that 
you  have  really  to  do  is  to  keep  your  back  as 


fbomc  mvtnce.  145 

straight  as  you  can;  and  not  think  about |k 
what  is  upon  it — above  all,  not  to  boast  of  | 
what  is    upon    it.      The    real   and    essential 
meaning  of  ''virtue"  is  in  that  straightness 
of  back.      Yes ;  you    may  laugh,    children, 
but  it  is.      You  know  I  was  to  tell  you  about 
the  words  that  began  with  V.     Sibyl,   whatf 
does  ''virtue''  mean  literally.? 

Sibyl.   Does  it  mean  courage  ? 

L.  Yes  ;  but  a  particular  kind  of  courage. 
It  means  courage  of  the  nerve  ;  vital  cour- 
age. That  first  syllable  of  it,  if  you  look  in 
Max  M tiller,  you  will  find  really  means 
"nerve,"  and  from  it  come  "vis,"  and 
"vir,"  and  "virgin"  (through  vireo),  and 
the  connected  word  ' '  virga  " — ' '  a  rod ;  " — 
the  green  rod,  or  springing  bough  of  a  tree, 
being  the  type  of  perfect  human  strength, 
both  in  the  use  of  it  in  the  Mosaic  story, 
when  it  becomes  a  serpent,  or  strikes 
the  rock ;  or  when  Aaron's  bears  its  al- 
monds ;  and  in  the  metaphorical  expres- 
sions, the  "Rod  out  of  the  stem  of  Jesse," 
and  the  "Man  whose  name  is  the  Branch," 
and  so  on.  //And  the  essential  idea  of  real 
virtue  is  that  of  a  vital  human  strength, 
which  instinctively,  constantly,  and  without 
motive,  does  what  is  right.  You  must  train 
men  to  this  by  habit,  as  you  would  the 
branch  of  a  tree  ;  and  give  them  instincts 
and  manners  (or  morals)  of  purity,  justice, 
kindness,  and  courage.  Once  rightly 
trained,  they  act  as  they  should  irrespect- 
10 


146  ^be  jemce  ot  tbe  BneU 

lively  of  all  motive,  of  fear,  or  of  reward. 
It  is  the  blackest  sign  of  putrescence  in  a 
national  religion,  when  men  speak  as  if  it 
were  the  only  safeguard  of  conduct  ;  and 
assume  that,  but  for  the  fear  of  being 
burned,  or  for  the  hope  of  being  rewarded, 
everybody  would  pass  their  lives  in  lying, 
stealing,  and  murdering.  I  think  quite  one 
of  the  notablest  historical  events  of  this 
century  (perhaps  the  very  notablest),  was 
that  council  of  clergymen,  horror-struck 
at  the  idea  of  any  diminution  in  our  dread  of 
hell,  at  which  the  last  of  English  clergymen 
whom  one  would  have  expected  to  see  in 
such  a  function,  rose  as  the  devil's  advocate  ; 
to  tell  us  how  impossible  it  was  we  could  get 
on  without  him. 

Violet  {a/jter  a  pause).  But,  surely,  if 
people  weren't  afraid — (hesitates  again). 

L.  They  should  be  afraid  of  doing  wrong, 
and  of  that  only,  my  dear.  Otherwise,  if 
they  only  don't  do  wrong  for  fear  of  being 
punished,  they  have  done  wrong  in  their 
hearts  already. 

Violet.  Well,  but  surely,  at  least  one 
ought  to  be  afraid  of  displeasing  God  ;  and 
one's  desire  to  please  Him  should  be  one's 
first  motive  } 

L.   He  never  would  be  pleased  with  us,  if 
\  it  were,  my  dear.     When  a  father  sends  his 
son  out  into  the  world — suppose  as  an  ap- 
prentice— fancy  the  boy's  coming  home  at 
night,   and  saying,    ''  Father,  I  could  have 


1bome  Viitnce.  147 

robbed  the  till  to-day  ;  but  I  didn't,  be- 
cause I  thought  you  wouldn't  like  it."  Do 
you  think  the  father  would  be  particularly 
pleased  ? 

(Violet  is  silent. ) 

He  would  answer,  would  he  not,  if  he 
were  wise  and  good,  "  My  boy,  though  you 
had  no  father,  you  must  not  rob  tills  "  ?  And 
nothing  is  ever  done  so  as  really  to  please 
our  Great  Father,  unless  we  would  also  have 
done  it,  though  we  had  no  Father  to  know 
of  it. 

Violet  (after  long  pause).  But,  then, 
what  continual  threatenings,  and  promises 
of  reward  there  are  ! 

L.  And  how  vain  both  !  with  the  Jews, 
and  with  all  of  us.  But  the  fact  is,  that  the 
threat  and  promise  are  simple  statements  of 
the  Divine  law,  and  of  its  consequences. 
The  fact  is  truly  told  you, — make  what  use 
you  may  of  it :  and  as  collateral  warning,  or 
encouragement,  comfort,  the  knowledge  of 
future  consequences  may  often  be  helpful  to 
us  ;  but  helpful  chiefly  to  the  better  state 
when  we  can  act  without  reference  to  them. 
And  there's  no  measuring  the  poisoned  in- 
fluence of  that  notion  of  future  reward  on  the 
mind  of  Christian  Europe,  in  the  early  ages. 
Half  the  monastic  system  rose  out  of  that, 
acting  on  the  occult  pride  and  ambition  of 
good  people  (as  the  other  half  of  it  came  of 
their  follies  and  misfortunes).  There  is  al- 
ways a  considerable  quantity   of  pride,    to 


148  Zbc  JBXbiCB  ot  tbe  S)u6t 

beg-in  with,  in  what  is  called  "  giving  one^s 
self  to  God.''  As  if  one  had  ever  belonged 
to  anybody  else  ! 

Dora.  But,  surely,  great  good  has  come 
out  of  the  monastic  system — our  books, — 
our  sciences — all  saved  by  the  monks? 

L.  Saved  from  what,  my  dear  ?  P'rom 
the  abyss  of  misery  and  ruin  which  that  false 
Christianity  allowed  the  whole  active  world 
to  live  in.  When  it  had  become  the  princi- 
pal amusement,  and  the  most  admired  art 
of  Christian  men,  to  cut  one  another's 
throats,  and  burn  one  another's  towns  ;  of 
course  the  few  feeble  or  reasonable  persons 
left,  who  desired  quiet,  safety,  and  kind 
fellowship,  got  into  cloisters  ;  and  the  gen- 
tlest, thoughtfullest,  noblest  men  and  women 
shut  themselves  up,  precisely  where  they 
could  be  of  least  use.  They  are  very  fine 
things,  for  us  painters,  now — the  towers 
and  white  arches  upon  the  tops  of  the  rocks  ; 
always  in  places  where  it  takes  a  day's 
climbing  to  get  at  them  ;  but  the  intense 
tragi-comedy  of  the  thing,  when  one  thinks 
of  it,  is  unspeakable.  All  the  good  people 
of  the  world  getting  themselves  hung  up 
out  of  the  way  of  mischief,  like  Bailie  Nicol 
Jarvie  ; — poor  little  lambs,  as  it  were,  dan- 
gling there  for  the  sign  of  the  Golden 
Fleece  ;  or  like  Socrates  in  his  basket  in 
the  '*  Clouds  "  !  (I  must  read  you  that  bit  of 
Aristophanes  again,  by  the  way.)  And  be- 
lieve me,     children,  I  am  no    warped  wit- 


1bome  Dirtues*  149 

ness,  as  far  as  regards  monasteries  ;  or  if 
I  am,  it  is  in  their  favor.  I  have  always 
had  a  strong  leaning  that  way  ;  and  have 
pensively  shivered  with  Augustines  at  St. 
Bernard  ;  and  happily  made  hay  with  Fran- 
ciscans at  Fesole  ;  and  sat  silent  with  Car- 
thusians in  their  little  gardens,  south  of 
Florence ;  and  mourned  through  many  a 
day-dream,  at  Melrose  and  Bolton.  But 
the  wonder  is  always  to  me,  not  how  much, 
but  how  little,  the  monks  have,  on  the 
w^hole,  done,  with  all  that  leisure,  and  all 
that  good-will !  What  nonsense  monks 
characteristically  wrote  ; — what  little  prog- 
ress they  made  in  the  sciences  to  which 
they  devoted  themselves  as  a  duty, — medi- 
cine especially  ;  and,  last  and  worst,  what 
depths  of  degradation  they  can  som  times 
see  one  another,  and  the  population  round 
them,  sink  into ;  without  either  doubting 
their  system,  or  reforming  it  ! 

{Seeing  questions  rising  to  lips.)  Hold 
your  little  tongues,  children  ;  it's  very  late, 
and  you'll  make  me  forget  what  I've  to  say. 
Fancy  yourselves  in  pews,  for  five  minutes. 
There's  one  point  of  possible  good  in  the 
conventual  system,  which  is  always  attrac- 
tive to  young  girls  ;  and  the  idea  is  a  very 
dangerous  one ; — the  notion  of  a  merit,  or 
exalting  virtue,  consisting  in  a  habit  of  medi- 
tation on  the  ''things  above,"  or  things  of 
the  next  world.  Now  it  is  quite  true,  that  a 
person  of  beautiful  mind,  dwelling  on  what- 


150  Zbc  iQtbiCB  ot  tbc  WneU 

ever  appears  to  them  most  desirable  and 
lovely  in  a  possible  future,  will  not  only  pass 
their  time  pleasantly,  but  will  even  acquire, 
at  last,  a  vague  and  wildly  gentle  charm  of 
manner  and  feature,  which  will  give  them 
an  air  of  peculiar  sanctity  in  the  eyes  of 
others.  Whatever  real  or  apparent  good 
there  may  be  in  this  result,  I  want  you  to 
observe,  children,  that  we  have  no  real  au- 
thority for  the  reveries  to  which  it  is  owing. 
We  are  told  nothing  distinctly  of  the  heavenly 
world ;  except  that  it  will  be  free  from  sor- 
row, and  pure  from  sin.  What  is  said  of 
pearl  gates,  golden  floors,  and  the  like,  is 
accepted  as  merely  figurative  by  religious 
enthusiasts  themselves  ;  and  whatever  they 
pass  their  time  in  conceiving,  whether  of  the 
happiness  of  risen  souls,  of  their  intercourse, 
or  of  the  appearance  and  employment  of  the 
heavenly  powers,  is  entirely  the  product  of 
their  own  imagination  ;  and  as  completely 
and  distinctly  a  work  of  fiction,  or  romantic 
invention,  as  any  novel  of  Sir  Walter  Scott's. 
That  the  romance  is  founded  on  religious 
theory  or  doctrine  ; — that  no  disagreeable 
or  wicked  persons  are  admitted  into  the 
story  ; — and  that  the  inventor  fervently  hopes 
that  some  portion  of  it  may  hereafter  come 
true,  does  not  in  the  least  alter  the  real  nature 
of  the  effort  or  enjoyment. 

Now,  whatever  indulgence  may  be  granted 
to  amiable  people  for  pleasing  themselves 
in  this  innocent  way,  it  is  beyond  question, 


1bome  \Dirtue6. 


151 


that  to  seclude  themselves  from  the  rough 
duties  of  life,  merely  to  write  religious  ro- 
mances, or,  as  in  most  cases  merely  to  dream, 
them,  without  taking  so  much  trouble  as  is 
implied  in  writing,  ought  not  to  be  received 
as  an  act  of  heroic  virtue.  But,  observe, 
even  in  admitting  thus  much,  I  have  as- 
sumed that  the  fancies  are  just  and  beautiful, 
though  fictitious.  Now  what  right  have  any 
of  us  to  assume  that  our  own  fancies  will 
assuredly  be  either  the  one  or  the  other? 
That  they  delight  us,  and  appear  lovely  to 
us,  is  no  real  proof  of  its  not  being  wasted 
time  to  form  them  :  and  we  may  surely  be 
led  somewhat  to  distrust  our  judgment  of 
them  by  observing  what  ignoble  imagina- 
tions have  sometimes  sufficiently,  or  even 
enthusiastically  occupied  the  hearts  of  others. 
The  principal  source  of  the  spirit  of  religious 
contemplation  is  the  East  ;  now  I  have  here 
in  my  hand  a  Byzantine  image  of  Christ, 
which,  if  you  will  look  at  it  seriously,  may, 
I  think,  at  once  and  forever  render  you  cau- 
tious in  the  indulgence  of  a  merely  contem- 
plative habit  of  mind.  Observe,  it  is  the 
fashion  to  look  at  such  a  thing  only  as  a 
piece  of  barbarous  art  ;  that  is  the  smallest 
part  of  its  interest.  What  I  want  you  to  see 
is  the  baseness  and  falseness  of  a  religious 
state  of  enthusiasm  in  which  such  a  work 
could  be  dwelt  upon  with  pious  pleasure. 
That  a  figure,  with  two  small  round  black 
beads  for  eyes  ;  a  gilded  face,  deep  cut  into, 


152  Zbc  Btbice  ot  tbe  Duet. 

horrible  wrinkles  ;  an  open  gash  for  a  mouth, 
and  a  distorted  skeleton  for  a  body,  wrapped 
about,  to  make  it  fine,  with  striped  enamel 
of  blue  and  gold  ;  that  such  a  figure,  I  say, 
should  ever  have  been  thought  helpful  to- 
wards the  conception  of  a  Redeeming  Deity, 
may  make  you,  I  think,  very  doubtful,  even 
of  the  Divine  approval, — much  more  of  the 
Divine  inspiration, — of  religious  reverie  in 
general.  You  feel,  doubtless,  that  your  own 
idea  of  Christ  would  be  something  very  dif- 
ferent from  this  ;  but  in  what  does  the  differ- 
ence consist  ?  Not  in  any  more  divine  au- 
thority in  your  imagination  ;  but  in  the  in- 
tellectual work  of  six  intervening  centuries  ; 
which,  simply,  by  artistic  discipline,  has 
refined  this  crude  conception  for  you,  and 
filled  you,  partly  with  an  innate  sensation, 
partly  with  an  acquired  knowledge,  of  higher 
forms, — which  render  this  Byzantine  crucifix 
as  horrible  to  you,  as  it  was  pleasing  to  its 
maker.  More  is  required  to  excite  your  fancy  ; 
but  your  fancy  is  of  no  more  authority  than 
his  was  :  and  a  point  of  national  art-skill  is 
quite  conceivable,  in  which  the  best  we  can 
do  now  will  be  as  offensive  to  the  religious 
dreamers  of  the  more  highly  cultivated  time, 
as  this  Byzantine  crucifix  is  to  you. 

Mary.  But  surely,  Angelico  will  always 
retain  his  power  over  everybody  ? 

L.  Yes,  I  should  think,  always ;  as  the 
gentle  words  of  a  child  will  :  but  you  would 
be  much  surprised,  Mary,  if  you  thoroughly 


Ibomc  \t)(rtue5.  153 

took  the  pains  to  analyze,  and  had  the  per- 
fect means  of  analyzing,  that  power  of  An- 
gelico, — to  discover  its  real  sources.  Of 
course  it  is  natural,  at  first,  to  attribute  it  to 
the  pure  religious  fervor  by  which  he  was 
inspired  ;  but  do  you  suppose  Angelico  was 
really  the  only  monk,  in  all  the  Christian 
world  of  the  middle  ages,  who  labored,  in 
art,  with  a  sincere  religious  enthusiasm  ? 

Mary.   No,  certainly  not 

L.  Anything  more  frightful,  more  destruc- 
tive of  all  religious  faith  whatever,  than 
such  a  supposition,  could  not  be.  And  yet, 
what  other  monk  ever  produced  such  work  ? 
I  have  myself  examined  carefully  upwards 
of  two  thousand  illuminated  missals,  with 
especial  view  to  the  discovery  of  any  evi- 
dence of  a  similar  result  upon  the  art,  from 
the  monkish  devotion  ;  and  utterly  in  vain. 

Mary.  But  then,  was  not  Fra  Angelico  a 
man  of  entirely  separate  and  exalted  genius  ? 

L.  Unquestionably ;  and  granting  him  to 
be  that,  the  peculiar  phenomenon  in  his  art 
is,  to  me,  not  its  loveliness,  but  its  weak- 
ness. The  effect  of  "inspiration,"  had  it 
been  real,  on  a  man  of  consummate  genius, 
should  have  been,  one  would  have  thought, 
to  make  everything  that  he  did  faultless  and 
strong,  no  less  than  lovely.  But  of  all  men, 
deserving  to  be  called  "great,"  Fra  Angelico 
permits  to  himself  the  least  pardonable  faults, 
and  the  most  palpable  follies.  There  is 
evidently  within  him  a  sense  of  grace,  and 


154  ^t)c  BtbiC0  ot  tbc  1S>\X6U 

power  of  invention,  as  great  as  Ghiberti's  : — 
we  are  in  the  habit  of  attributing  those  high 
qualities  to  his  religious  enthusiasm  ;  but, 
if  they  were  produced  by  that  enthusiasm 
in  him,  they  ought  to  be  produced  by  the 
same  feelings  in  others  ;  and  we  see  they 
are  not.  Whereas,  comparing  him  with 
contemporary  great  artists,  of  equal  grace 
and  invention,  one  peculiar  character  re- 
mains notable  in  him— which,  logically,  we 
ought  therefore  to  attribute  to  the  religious 
fervor  ; — and  that  distincti^^e  character  is^ 
the  contented  indulgence  of  his  own  weak- 
nesses, and  perseverance  in  his  own  igno- 
rances. 

Mary.  But  that's  dreadful !  And  what  zs 
the  source  of  the  peculiar  charm  which  we 
all  feel  in  his  word  ? 

L.  There  are  many  sources  of  it,  Mary  ; 
united  and  seeming  like  one.  You  would 
never  feel  that  charm  but  in  the  work  of  an 
entirely  good  man  ;  be  sure  of  that ;  but  the 
goodness  is  only  the  recipient  and  modify^ 
ing  element,  not  the  creative  one.  Consider 
carefully  what  delights  you  in  any  original 
picture  of  Angelico's.  You  will  find,  for 
one  minor  thing,  an  exquisite  variety  and 
brightness  of  ornamental  work.  That  is  not 
Angelico's  inspiration.  It  is  the  final  result 
of  the  labor  and  thought  of  millions  of  artists, 
of  all  nations  ;  from  the  earliest  Egyptian 
potters  downwards — Greeks,  Byzantines, 
Hindoos,  Arabs,  Gauls,  and  Northmen — all 


f)ome  IDtrtuee* 


155 


joining  in  the  toil ;  and  consummating  it  in 
Florence,  in  that  century,  with  such  em- 
broidery of  robe  and  inlaying  of  armor  as 
had  never  been  seen  till  then  ;  nor  probably, 
ever  will  be  seen  more.  Angelico  merely 
takes  his  share  of  this  inheritance,  and  ap- 
plies it  in  the  tenderest  way  to  subjects 
which  are  peculiarly  acceptant  of  it.  But 
the  inspiration,  if  it  exists  anywhere,  flashes 
on  the  knight's  shield  quite  as  radiantly  as 
on  the  monk's  picture.  Examining  farther 
into  the  source  of  your  emotions  in  the  An- 
gelico work,  you  will  find  much  of  the  im- 
pression of  sanctity  dependent  on  a  singular 
repose  and  grace  of  gesture,  consummating- 
itself  in  the  floating,  flying,  and  above  all, 
in  the  dancing  groups.  That  is  not  Angel- 
ico's  inspiration.  It  is  only  a  peculiarly" 
tender  use  of  systems  of  grouping  which  had 
been  long  before  developed  by  Giotto,  Mem- 
mi,  and  Orcagna  ;  and  the  real  root  of  it 
all  is  simply — What  do  you  think,  children  ? 
The  beautiful  dancing  of  the  Florentine- 
maidens  ! 

Dora  (indignant  again).  Now,  I  wonder 
what  next !  Why  not  say  it  all  depended 
on  Herodias'  daughter,  at  once  ? 

L.  Yes  ;  it  is  certainly  a  great  argument 
against  singing  that  there  were  once  sirens. 

Dora.  Well,  it  may  be  all  very  fine  and 
philosophical,  but  shouldn't  I  just  like  ta 
read  you  the  end  of  the  second  volume  of 
'*  Modern  Paiiiterb  "  1 


G^/i€^ 


156  XLbc  Btbtcs  of  tbe  Duet 

L.  My  dear,  do  you  think  any  teacher 
could  be  worth  your  listening-  to,  or  anybody 
else's  listening  to,  who  had  learned  nothing, 
and  altered  his  mind  in  nothing,  from  seven 
and  twenty  to  seven  and  forty  ?  But  that 
second  volume  is  very  good  for  you  as  far 
as  it  goes.  It  is  a  great  advance,  and  a 
thoroughly  straight  and  swift  one,  to  be  led, 
as  it  is  the  main  business  of  that  second 
volume  to  lead  you,  from  Dutch  cattle-pieces, 
and  ruffian-pieces,  to  Fra  Angelico.  And 
it  is  right  for  you  also,  as  you  grow  older, 
to  be  strengthened  in  the  general  sense  and 
judgment  which  may  enable  you  to  distin- 
guish the  weaknesses  from  the  virtues  of 
what  you  love,  else  you  might  come  to  love 
l)oth  alike  ;  or  even  the  weaknesses  without 
the  virtues.  You  might  end  by  liking  Over- 
l^eck  and  Cornelius  as  well  as  Angelico. 
However,  I  have  perhaps  been  leaning  a 
little  too  much  to  the  merely  practical  side 
of  things,  in  to-night's  talk  ;  and  you  are 
always  to  remember,  children,  that  I  do  not 
deny,  though  I  cannot  affirm,  the  spiritual 
advantapfes  resultino^,  in  certain  cases,  from 
enthusiastic  religious  reverie,  and  from  the 
other  practices  of  saints  and  anchorites. 
The  evidence  respecting  them  has  never  yet 
been  honestly  collected,  much  less  dispas- 
sionately examined  :  but  assuredly,  there  is 
in  that  direction  a  probability,  and  more 
than  a  probability,  of  dangerous  error,  while 
there  is  none  whatever  in  the  practice  of  an 


1bomc  lt)irtuc6» 


157 


active,  cheerful,  and  benevolent  life.  The 
hope  of  attaining  a  higher  rehgious  position, 
which  induces  us  to  encounter,  for  its  exalted 
alternative,  the  risk  of  unhealthy  error,  is 
often,  as  I  said,  founded  more  on  pride  than 
piety  ;  and  those  who,  in  modest  useful- 
ness, have  accepted  what  seemed  to  them 
here  the  lowliest  place  in  the  kingdom  of 
their  Father,  are  not,  I  believe,  the  least 
likely  to  receive  hereafter  the  command, 
then  unmistakable,  '*  Friend,  go  up  higher." 


/JLaaT^       /^ 


4^  ctAA^Aj/y^Wv^ 


LECTURE  8. 

CRYSTAL  CAPRICE. 


LECTURE  Vni. 

CRYSTAL   CAPRICE, 

Formal  Lecture  in  Schoolroom^  after  some  practical  eX' 
amination  of  minerals 

L.  We  have  seen  enough,  children,  though 
very  Httle  of  what  might  be  seen  if  we  had 
more  time,  of  mineral  structures  produced 
by  visible  opposition,  or  contest  among 
elements  ;  structures  of  which  the  variety, 
however  great,  need  not  surprise  us  :  for  we 
quarrel,  ourselves,  for  many  and  slight 
causes  ; — much  more,  one  should  think, 
may  crystals,  who  can  only  feel  the  antag- 
onism, not  argue  about  it.  But  there  is  a 
yet  more  singular  mimicry  of  our  human 
ways  in  the  varieties  of  form  which  appear 
owing  to  no  antagonistic  force  ;  but  merely 
to  the  variable  humor  and  caprice  of  the 
crystals  themselves  :  and  I  have  asked  you 
all  to  come  into  the  schoolroom  to-day, 
because,  of  course,  this  is  a  part  of  the  crys- 
tal mind  which  must  be  peculiarly  interest- 
ing to  a  feminine  audience.  {Great  symp- 
toms of  disapproval  on  the  part  of  said 
audience.)  Now  you  need  not  pretend  that 
II  i6i 


1 62  Zbc  iBtbice  ot  tbc  Dust. 

it  will  not  interest  you  ;  why  should  it  not  ? 
It  is  true  that  we  men  are  never  capricious  ; 
but  that  only  makes  us  the  more  dull  and 
disagreeable.  You,  who  are  crystalline  in 
brightness,  as  well  as  in  caprice,  charm  in- 
finitely, by  infinitude  of  change.  {Audible 
murmurs  of"'  Worse  and  worse!"  "  As  if 
we  could  he  got  over  that  way  I "  Etc.  Hie 
Lecturer,  however,  observi7ig  the  expression 
of  the  features  to  he  more  complacent,  pro- 
ceeds.) And  the  most  curious  mimicry,  if 
not  of  your  changes  of  fashion,  at  least  of 
your  various  modes  (in  healthy  periods)  of 
national  costume,  takes  place  among  the 
crystals  of  different  countries.  With  a  little 
experience,  it  is  quite  possible  to  say  at  a 
glance,  in  what  districts  certain  crystals 
have  been  found  ;  and  although,  if  we  had 
knowledge  extended  and  accurate  enough, 
we  might  of  course  ascertain  the  laws  and 
circumstances  which  have  necessarily  pro- 
duced the  form  peculiar  to  each  locality,  this 
would  be  just  as  true  of  the  fancies  of  the 
human  mind.  If  we  could  know  the  exact 
circumstances  which  affect  it,  we  could  fore- 
tell what  now  seems  to  us  only  caprice  of 
thought,  as  well  as  what  now  seems  to  us 
only  caprice  of  crystal  :  nay,  so  far  as  our 
knowledge  reaches,  it  is  on  the  whole  easier 
to  find  some  reason  why  the  peasant  girls 
of  Berne  should  wear  their  caps  in  the  shape 
of  butterflies  ;  and  the  peasant  girls  of 
Munich  theirs  in  the  shape  of  shells,  than  to 


Cri26tal  Caprice^  163 

^ay  why  the  rock-crystals  of  Dauphine 
should  all  have  their  summits  of  the  shape 
of  lip-pieces  of  flageolets,  while  those  of  St. 
Gothard  are  symmetrical  ;  or  why  the  fluor 
of  Chamouni  is  rose-colored,  and  in  octahe- 
drons, while  the  fluor  of  Weardale  is  green, 
and  in  cubes.  Still  farther  removed  is  the 
hope,  at  present,  of  accounting  for  minor 
differences  in  modes  of  grouping  and  con- 
struction. Take,  for  instance,  the  caprices 
of  this  single  mineral,  quartz  ; — variations 
upon  a  single  theme.  It  has  many  forms  ; 
but  see  what  it  will  make  out  of  this  one, 
the  six-sided  prism.  For  shortness'  sake, 
I  shall  call  the  body  of  the  prism  its 
"column,"  and  the  pyramid  at  the  extremi- 
ties its  ""  cap."  Now,  here  first  you  have  a 
straight  column,  as  long  and  thin  as  a  stalk 
of  asparagus,  with  two  little  caps  at  the 
ends  :  and  here  you  have  a  short  thick 
column,  as  solid  as  a  haystack,  with  two  fat 
caps  at  the  ends  ;  and  here  you  have  two 
caps  fastened  together,  and  no  column  at 
all  between  them  !  Then  here  is  a  crystal 
with  its  column  fat  in  the  middle,  and  taper- 
ing to  a  little  cap  ;  and  here  is  one  stalked 
like  a  mushroom,  with  a  huge  cap  put  on 
the  top  of  a  slender  column  !  Then  here  is 
a  column  built  wholly  out  of  little  caps,  with 
a  large  smooth  cap  at  the  top.  And  here  is 
a  column  built  of  columns  and  caps  ;  the 
caps  all  truncated  about  half-way  to  their 
points.     And  in  both  these   last,   the   little 


164  ^bc  BtblC0  ot  tbe  Dust 

crystals  are  set  anyhow,  and  build  the  larg& 
one  in  a  disorderly  way ;  but  here  is  a  crys- 
tal made  of  columns  and  truncated  caps, 
set  in  regular  terraces  all  the  way  up. 

Mary.  But  are  not  these  groups  of  crystals^ 
rather  than  one  crystal .? 

L.  What  do  you  mean  by  a  group,  and 
what  by  one  crystal  ? 

Dora  {audibly  aside,  to  Mary,  who  is  brought 
to  pause).  You  know  you  are  never  ex- 
pected to  answer,  Mary. 

L.  I'm  sure  this  is  easy  enough.  What 
do  you  mean  by  a  group  of  people  ? 

Mary.  Three  or  four  together,  or  a  good 
many  together,  like  the  caps  in  these  crys- 
tals. 

L.  But  when  a  great  many  persons  get 
together  they  don't  take  the  shape  of  one 
person } 

(Mary  still  at  pause, ) 

Isabel.  No,  because  they  can't ;  but  you 
know  the  crystals  can  ;  so  why  shouldn't 
they? 

L.  Well,  they  don't  ;  that  is  to  say,  they 
don't  always,  nor  even  often.  Look  here, 
Isabel. 

Isabel.   What  a  nasty  ugly  thing  ! 

L.  I'm  glad  you  think  it  so  ugly.  Yet  it 
is  made  of  beautiful  crystals  ;  they  are  a  little 
gray  and  cold  in  color,  but  most  of  them 
are  clear. 

Isabel.  But  they're  in  such  horrid,  hor- 
Jid  disorder ! 


Cri^stal  Caprice^  165 

L.  Yes  ;  all  disorder  is  horrid,  when  it  is 
among  things  that  arc  naturally  orderly. 
Some  little  girli-'  rooms  are  naturally  di'soT- 
derly,  I  suppose  ;  or  I  don't  know  how  they 
could  live  in  them,  if  they  cry  out  so  when 
Ihey  only  see  quartz  crystals  in  confusion. 

Isabel.  Oh  !  but  how  come  they  to  be  like 
that  ? 

L.  You  may  well  ask.  And  yet  you  will 
always  hear  people  talking  as  if  they  thought 
order  more  wonderful  than  disorder  !  It 
2s  wonderful — as  we  have  seen  ;  but  to  me, 
as  to  you,  child,  the  supremely  wonderful 
thing  is  that  nature  should  ever  be  ruinous, 
or  wasteful,  or  deathful  !  I  look  at  this  wild 
piece  of  crystallization  with  endless  astonish- 
ment. 

Mary.   Where  does  it  come  from  ? 

L.  The  Tete  Noire  of  Chamounix.  What 
makes  it  more  strange  is  that  it  should  be  in 
a  vain  of  fine  quartz.  If  it  were  in  a  mold- 
ering  rock,  it  would  be  natural  enough  ;  but 
in  the  midst  of  so  fine  substance,  here  are 
the  crystals  tossed  in  a  heap  ;  some  large, 
myriads  small  (almost  as  small  as  dust), 
tumbling  over  each  other  like  a  terrified 
crowd,  and  glued  together  by  the  sides,  and 
edges,  and  backs,  and  heads  ;  some  warped, 
and  some  pushed  out  and  in,  and  all  spoiled, 
and  each  spoiling  the  rest. 

Mary.   And  how  flat  they  all  are  ! 

L.  Yes ;  that's  the  fashion  at  the  Tete 
Noire. 


i66  ^be  Btbics  ot  tbe  W\X6U 

Mary.  But  surely  this  is  ruin,  not  cap- 
rice ! 

L.  I  believe  it  is  in  great  part  misfortune  ; 
and  we  will  examine  these  crystal  troubles 
in  next  lecture.  But  if  you  want  to  see  the 
gracefullest  and  happiest  caprices  of  which, 
dust  is  capable,  you  must  go  to  the  Hartz  ; 
not  that  I  ever  mean  to  go  there  myself,  for 
I  want  to  retain  the  romantic  feeling  about 
the  name  ;  and  I  have  done  myself  some- 
harm  already  by  seeing  the  monotonous  and 
heavy  form  of  the  Brocken  from  the  suburbs 
of  Brunswick.  But  whether  the  mountains. 
be  picturesque  or  not,  the  tricks  which  the 
goblins  (as  I  am  told)  teach  the  crystals  in. 
them,  are  incomparably  pretty.  They  work 
chiefly  on  the  mind  of  a  docile,  bluish- 
colored  carbonate  of  lime;  which  comes- 
out  of  a  gray  limestone.  The  goblins  take 
the  greatest  possible  care  of  its  education^ 
and  see  that  nothing  happens  to  it  to  hurt 
its  temper  ;  and  when  it  may  be  supposed 
to  have  arrived  at  the  crisis  which  is  to  a 
well  brought  up  mineral,  what  presentation 
at  court  is  to  a  young  lady — after  which  it 
is  expected  to  set  fashions — there's  no  end 
to  its  pretty  ways  of  behaving.  First  it  will 
make  itself  into  pointed  darts  as  fine  as  hoar- 
frost ;  here,  it  is  changed  into  a  white  fur  as 
fine  as  silk  ;  here  into  little  crowns  and  cir- 
clets, as  bright  as  silver,  as  if  for  the  gnome 
princesses  to  wear  ;  here  it  is  in  beautiful 
little  plates,  for  them  to  eat  off ;  presently  it 


Crystal  Caprfce*  167 

is  in  towers  which  they  might  be  imprisoned 
in  ;  presently  in  caves  and  cells,  where  they 
may  make  nun-gnomes  of  themselves,  and 
no  gnome  ever  hear  of  them  more  ;  here  is 
some  of  it  in  sheaves,  like  corn  ;  here,  some 
in  drifts,  like  snow  ;  here,  some  in  rays,  like 
stars  :  and,  though  these  are,  all  of  them, 
necessarily,  shapes  that  the  mineral  takes  in 
other  places,  they  are  all  taken  here  with 
such  a  grace  that  you  recognize  the  high 
caste  and  breeding  of  the  crystals  wherever 
you  meet  them,  and  know  at  once  they  are 
Hartz-born. 

Of  course,  such  fine  things  as  these  are 
only  done  by  crystals  which  are  perfectly 
good,  and  good-humored ;  and  of  course, 
also,  there  are  ill-humored  crystals  who  tor- 
ment each  other,  and  annoy  quieter  crystals, 
yet  without  coming  to  anything  like  serious 
war.  Here  (for  once)  is  some  ill-disposed 
quartz,  tormenting  a  peaceable  octahedron 
of  fluor,  in  mere  caprice.  I  looked  at  it  the 
other  night  so  long,  and  so  wonderingly, 
just  before  putting  my  candle  out,  that  I  fell 
into  another  strange  dream.  But  you  don't 
care  about  dreams. 

Dora.  No  ;  we  didn't,  yesterday  ;  but  you 
know  we  are  made  up  of  caprice  ;  so  we  do, 
to-day  :  and  you  must  tell  it  us  directly. 

L.  Well,  you  see,  Neith  and  her  work 
were  still  much  in  my  mind  ;  and  then,  I 
had  been  looking  over  these  Hartz  things  for 
you,  and  thinking  of  the   sort  of  grotesque 


1 68  ^be  Btbics  of  tbe  Duet. 

sympathy  there  seemed  to  be  in  them  with 
the  beautiful  fringe  and  pinnacle  work  of 
Northern  architecture.  So,  when  I  fell 
asleep,  I  thought  I  saw  Neith  and  St.  Bar- 
bara talking  together. 

Dora.  But  what  had  St.  Barbara  to  do  with 
it?^ 

L.  My  dear,  I  am  quite  sure  St.  Barbara 
is  the  patroness  of  good  architects  ;  not  St. 
Thomas,  whatever  the  old  builders  thought. 
It  might  be  very  fine,  according  to  the 
monks'  notions,  in  St.  Thomas,  to  -give  all 
his  employer "s  money  away  to  the  poor  : 
but  breaches  of  contract  are  bad  founda- 
tions ;  and  I  believe,  it  was  not  he  but  St. 
Barbara,  who  overlooked  the  work  in  all  the 
buildings  you  and  I  care  about.  However 
that  may  be,  it  was  certainly  she  whom  I 
saw  in  my  dream  with  Neith.  Neith  was 
sitting  weaving,  and  I  thought  she  looked 
sad,  and  drew  her  shuttle  slowly  ;  and  St. 
Barbara  was  standing  at  her  side,  "in  a  stiff 
little  gown,  all  ins  and  outs,  and  angles  ; 
but  so  bright  with  embroidery  that  it  dazzled 
me  whenever  she  moved  ;  the  train  of  it  was 
just  like  a  heap  of  broken  jewels,  it  was  so 
stiff,  and  full  of  corners,  and  so  many-colored, 
and  bright.  Her  hair  fell  over  her  shoulders 
in  long,  delicate  waves,  from  under  a  little 
three-pinnacled  crown,  like  a  tower.  She 
was  asking  Neith  about  the  laws  of  architect- 

*  Note  V. 


Cri^stal  Gapricc*  169 

lire  in  Egypt  and  Greece  ;  and  when  Neith 
told  her  the  measures  of  the  pyramids,  St. 
Barbara  said  she  thought  they  would  have 
been  better  three-cornered  :  and  when  Neith 
told  her  the  measures  of  the  Parthenon,  St. 
Barbara  said  she  thought  it  ought  to  have 
had  two  transepts.  But  she  was  pleased 
when  Neith  told  her  of  the  temple  of  the 
dew,  and  of  the  Caryan  maidens  bearing  its 
frieze  :  and  then  she  thought  that  perhaps 
Neith  would  like  to  hear  what  sort  of  temples 
she  was  building  herself,  in  the  French  val- 
leys, and  on  the  crags  of  the  Rhine.  So  she 
began  gossiping,  just  as  one  of  you  might 
to  an  old  lady  :  and  certainly  she  talked  in 
the  sweetest  way  in  the  world  to  Neith  ;  and 
explained  to  her  all  about  crockets  and  pin- 
nacles :  and  Neith  sat,  looking  very  grave  ; 
and  always  graver  as  St.  Barbara  went  on  ; 
till  at  last,  I'm  sorry  to  say,  St.  Barbara  lost 
her  temper  a  little. 

May  {very  gi'ave  herself).   *'St.  Barbara.?" 

L.  Yes,  May.  Why  shouldn't  she.?  It 
was  very  tiresome  of  Neith  to  sit  looking 
like  that. 

May.    But,  then,  St.  Barbara  was  a  saint ! 

L.   What's  that,  May  } 

May.   a  saint  !     A  saint  is — I  am  sure  you 
know  1 
'L.   If  I  did,   it  would  not   make   me  sure 
^  that  you  knew  too,  May  :  but  1  don't. 

Violet  {expressing  the  incredulity  0/  the 
<iudience).     Oh, — sir  ! 


lyo  Zbc  ;£tbics  ot  tbc  S)ust. 

L.   That  is  to  say,  I  know  that  people  are 
called  saints  who  are  supposed  to  be  better 
than   others  :  but  I  don't  know  how  much, 
better  they  must  be,  in  order  to  be  saints  ;  nor 
how  nearly  anybody  may  be  a  saint,  and  yet 
not  be  quite  one  ;   nor  whether  everybody 
who  is  called  a  saint  was  one ;  nor  whether 
everybody  who  isn't  called  a  saint,  isn't  one. 
{General    silence ;    the    audience  feeling 
themselves  on  the  verge  of  the  Iiifiniiies, 
and  a  little  shocked,    a7id  7?iuch  puz- 
zled by  so  Many  questio7is  at  once. ) 

L.  Besides,  did  you  never  hear  that  verse 
about  being  "  called  to  be  saints  "? 

]\Iay  {repeats  Rom.  i.  7). 

L.  Quite  right,  ]\Iay.  Well,  then,  who 
are  called  to  be  that  ?  People  in  Rome 
only  ? 

May.  Everybody,  I  suppose,  whom  God 
loves. 

L.  What  !  little  girls  as  well  as  other 
people } 

May.    All  grown-up  people,  I  mean. 

L.  Why  not  little  girls  .?  Are  they  wickeder 
when  they  are  little  1 

May.    Oh,  I  hope  not. 

L.   Why  not  little  girls,  then  ? 
{Pause). 

Lily.  Because,  you  know,  we  can't  be 
worth  anything  if  we're  ever  so  good ; — I 
mean,  if  we  try  to  be  ever  so  good ;  and  we 
can't  do  difficult  things — like  saints. 

L.   I  am  afraid,  my  dear,  that  old  people 


Cri26tal  Gaptice*  17 1 

are  not  more  able  or  willing  for  their  diffi- 
culties than  you  children  are  for  yours.  AIL 
I  can  say  is,  that  if  ever  I  see  any  of  you, 
when  you  are  seven  or  eight  and  twenty, 
knitting  your  brows  over  any  work  you. 
want  to  do  or  to  understand,  as  I  saw  you, 
Lily,  knitting  your  brows  over  your  slate 
this  morning,  I  should  think  you  very  noble 
women.  But — to  come  back  to  my  dream 
— St.  Barbara  did  lose  her  temper  a  little  ; 
and  I  was  not  surprised.  For  you  can't  think 
how  provoking  Neith  looked,  sitting  there 
just  like  a  statue  of  sandstone  ;  only  going 
on  weaving,  like  a  machine  ;  and  never 
quickening  the  cast  of  her  shuttle  ;  while  St. 
Barbara  was  telling  her  so  eagerly  all  about 
the  most  beautiful  things,  and  chattering 
away,  as  fast  as  bells  ring  on  Christmas 
Eve,  till  she  saw  that  Neith  didn't  care  ;  and 
then  St.  Barbara  got  as  red  as  a  rose,  and 
stopped,  just  in  time; — or  I  think  she  would 
really  have  said  something  naughty. 

Isabel.  Oh,  please,  but  didn't  Neith  sa)r 
anything  then .? 

L.  Yes.  She  said,  quite  quietly,  ''  It  may- 
be very  pretty,  my  love ;  but  it  is  all  non- 
sense." 

Isabel.   Oh  dear,  oh  dear  ;  and  then  } 

L.  Well ;  then  I  was  a  little  angry  myself^ 
and  hoped  St.  Barbara  would  be  quite  angry  ; 
but  she  wasn't.  She  bit  her  lips  first  ;  and 
then  gave  a  great  sigh — such  a  wild,  sweet 
sigh — and  then  she  knelt  down  and  hid  her 


1/2  ^be  Btbic6  ot  tbe  Dust* 

face  on  Neith's  knees.  Then  Neith  smiled 
a  little,  and  was  moved. 

Isabel.   Oh,  I  am  so  glad  ! 

L.  And  she  touched  St.  Barbara's  forehead 
with  a  flower  of  white  lotus  ;  and  St.  Bar- 
bara sobbed  once  or  twice,  and  then  said  : 
*'If  you  only  could  see  how  beautiful  it  is, 
and  how  much  it  makes  people  feel  what  is 
good  and  lovely  ;  and  if  you  could  only  hear 
the  children  singing  in  the  Lady  chapels  !  " 
And  Neith  smiled, — but  still  sadly, — and 
said,  ^'  How  do  you  know  what  I  have  seen, 
or  heard,  my  love.?  Do  you  think  all  those 
vaults  and  towers  of  yours  have  been  built 
without  me.?  There  was  not  a  pillar  in 
your  Giotto's  Santa  Maria  del  Fiore  which  I 
did  not  set  true  by  m.y  spearshaft  as  it  rose. 
But  this  pinnacle  and  flame  work  which  has 
set  your  little  heart  on  fire  is  all  vanity  ; 
and  you  will  soon  see  what  it  will  come  to, 
and  none  will  grieve  for  it  more  than  I. 
And  then  every  one  will  disbelieve  your 
pretty  symbols  and  types.  Men  must  be 
spoken  simply  to,  my  dear,  if  you  would 
^uide  them  kindly,  and  long."  I3ut  St.  Bar- 
bara answered,  that,  '^Indeed  she  thought 
every  one  liked  her  work,'"' and  that  ''the 
people  of  different  towns  were  as  eager 
about  their  cathedral  towers  as  about  their 
privileges  or  their  markets  ;  "  and  then  she 
asked  Neith  to  come  and  build  something 
with  her,  wall  against  tower;  and  ''see 
whether  the  people  will  be  as  much  pleased 


Crystal  Gapdcc^  175 

with  your  building  as  with  mine. "  But  Neitk 
answered,  ''I  will  not  contend  with  you, 
my  dear.  I  strive  not  with  those  who  love- 
me,  and  for  those  who  hate  me,  it  is  not 
well  to  strive  with  me,  as  weaver  Arachne 
knows.  And  remember,  child,  that  nothing- 
is  ever  done  beautifully,  which  is  done  in 
rivalship  ;  nor  nobly,  which  is  done  in  pride."" 
Then  St.  Barbara  hung  her  head  quite 
down,  and  said  she  was  very  sorry  she  had 
been  so  foolish ;  and  kissed  Neith  ;  and 
stood  thinking  a  minute  :  and  then  her  eyes, 
got  bright  again,  and  she  said,  she  would 
go  directly  and  build  a  chapel  with  five 
windows  in  it  ;  four  for  the  four  cardinal 
virtues,  and  one  for  humility,  in  the  middle, 
bigger  than  the  rest.  And  Neith  very  nearly 
laughed  quite  out,  I  thought  ;  certainly  her 
beautiful  lips  lost  all  their  sternness  for  an 
instant;  then  she  said,  "Well,  love,  build 
it,  but  do  not  put  so  many  colors  into  your 
windows  as  you  usually  do  ;  else  no  one 
will  be  able  to  see  to  read,  inside :  and 
when  it  is  built,  let  a  poor  village  priest  con- 
secrate it,  and  not  an  archbishop."  St. 
Barbara  started  a  little,  I  thought,  and 
turned  as  if  to  say  something  ;  but  changed 
her  mind,  and  gathered  up  her  train,  and 
went  out.  And  Neith  bent  herself  again  to 
her  loom,  in  which  she  was  weaving  a  web 
of  strange  dark  colors,  I  thought  ;  but  per- 
haps it  was  only  after  the  glittering  of  St. 
Barbara's  embroidered  train  :  and  I  tried  to 


174  ^be  iBtbics  ot  tbe  Dust 

make  out  the  figures  in  Neith's  web,  and 
confused  myself  among  them,  as  one  al- 
ways does  in  dreams  ;  and  then  the  dream 
changed  altogether,  and  I  found  myself,  all 
at  once,  among  a  crowd  of  little  Gothic  and 
Egyptian  spirits,  who  were  quarreling  ;  at 
least  the  Gothic  ones  were  trying  to  quarrel ; 
for  the  Egyptian  ones  only  sat  with  their 
hands  on  their  knees,  and  their  aprons  sticking 
out  very  stiffly;  and  stared.  And  after  awhile 
I  began  to  understand  what  the  matter  was. 
It  seemed  that  some  of  the  troublesome 
building  imps,  who  meddle  and  make  con- 
tinually, even  in  the  best  Gothic  work,  had 
been  listening  to  St.  Barbara's  talk  with 
Neith  ;  and  had  made  up  their  minds  that 
Neith  had  no  workpeople  who  could  build 
against  them.  They  were  but  dull  imps,  as 
you  may  fancy,  by  their  thinking  that  ;  and 
never  had  done  much,  except  disturbing  the 
great  Gothic  building  angels  at  their  work, 
and  playing  tricks  to  each  other  ;  indeed,  of 
late  they  had  been  living  years  and  years, 
like  bats,  up  under  the  cornices  of  Stras- 
bourg and  Cologne  cathedrals,  with  nothing 
to  do  but  to  make  mouths  at  the  people 
below.  However,  they  thought  they  knew 
everything  about  tower  building  ;  and  those 
who  had  heard  what  Neith  said,  told  the 
rest  ;  and  they  all  flew  down  directly,  chat- 
tering in  German,  like  jackdaws,  to  show 
Neith's  people  what  they  could  do.  And 
Ihey  had  found  some  of  Neith  s  old  work- 


Crr?0tal  Caprice*  175 

people  somewhere  near  Sais,  sitting  in  the 
sun,  with  their  hands  on  their  knees  ;  and 
abused  them  heartily  :  and  Neith's  people 
did  not  mind  at  first,  but,  after  awhile,  they 
seemed  to  get  tired  of  the  noise  ;  and  one  or 
two  rose  up  slowly,  and  laid  hold  of  their 
measuring  rods,  and  said,  "  If  St.  Barbara's 
people  liked  to  build  with  them,  tower 
against  pyramid,  they  would  show  them 
how  to  lay  stones."  Then  the  Gothic  little 
spirits  threw  a  great  many  double  somer- 
saults for  joy  ;  and  put  the  tips  of  their 
tongues  out  slyly  to  each  other,  on  one 
side  ;  and  I  heard  the  Egyptians  say,  '^  they 
must  be  some  new  kind  of  frog — they  didn't 
think  there  was  much  building  in  them." 
However,  the  stiff  old  workers  took  their 
rods,  as  I  said,  and  measured  out  a  square  . 
space  of  sand  ;  but  as  soon  as  the  German 
spirits  saw  that,  they  declared  they  wanted 
exactly  that  bit  of  ground  to  build  on  them- 
selves. Then  the  Egyptian  builders  offered 
to  go  farther  off,  and  the  German  ones  said, 
"  Ja  wohl. "  But  as  soon  as  the  Egyptians 
had  measured  out  another  square,  the  little 
Germans  said  they  must  have  some  of  that 
too.  Then  Neith's  people  laughed ;  and 
said,  "they  might  take  as  much  as  they 
liked,  but  they  would  not  move  the  plan  of 
their  pyramid  again."  Then  the  little  Ger- 
mans took  three ,  pieces,  and  began  to  build 
three  spires  directly  ;  one  large,  and  two 
little.     And  when  the  Egyptians  saw  they 


176  Zbc  BtbiC6  ot  tbe  'DmU 

had  fairly  begun,  they  laid  their  founda- 
tion all  round,  of  large  square  stones  :  and 
began  to  build,  so  steadily  that  they  had 
like  to  have  swallowed  up  the  three  little 
German  spires.  So  when  the  Gothic  spirits 
saw  that,  they  built  their  spires  leaning,  like 
the  tower  of  Pisa,  that  they  might  stick  out 
at  the  side  of  the  pyramid.  And  Neith's 
people  stared  at  them  ;  and  thought  it  very 
clever,  but  very  wrong ;  and  on  they  went, 
in  their  own  way,  and  said  nothing.  Then 
the  little  Gothic  spirits  were  terribly  pro- 
voked because  they  could  not  spoil  the 
shape  of  the  pyramid  ;  and  they  sat  down 
all  along  the  ledges  of  it  to  make  faces  ; 
but  that  did  no  good.  Then  they  ran  to 
the  corners,  and  put  their  elbow^s  on  their 
knees,  and  stuck  themselves  out  as  far  as 
they  could,  and  made  more  faces  ;  but 
that  did  no  good,  neither.  Then  they 
looked  up  to  the  sky,  and  opened  their 
mouths  wide,  and  gobbled,  and  said  it  was 
too  hot  for  work,  and  wondered  when  it 
would  rain  ;  but  that  did  no  good,  neither. 
And  all  the  while  the  Egyptian  spirits  were 
laying  step  above  step,  patiently.  But  when 
the  Gothic  ones  looked,  and  saw  how  high 
they  had  got,  they  said,  "  Ach,  Himmel  !  " 
and  flew  down  in  a  great  black  cluster  to 
the  bottom  ;  and  swept  out  a  level  spot  in 
the  sand  with  their  wings,  in  no  time,  and 
began  building  a  tower  straight  up,  as  fast 
as   they   could.     And  the  Egyptians  stood 


Cri2Stal  Caprice*  177 

still  again  to  stare  at  them  ;  for  the  Gothic 
spirits  had  got  quite  into  a  passion,  and. 
were  really  working  very  wonderfully. 
They  cut  the  sandstone  into  strips  as  fine  as 
reeds ;  and  put  one  reed  on  the  top  of 
another,  so  that  you  could  not  see  where 
they  fitted  :  and  they  twisted  them  in  and 
out  like  basket  work,  and  knotted  them  into 
likenesses  of  ugly  faces,  and  of  strange 
beasts  biting  each  other ;  and  up  they  went, 
and  up  still,  and  they  made  spiral  staircases 
at  the  corners,  for  the  loaded  workers  to 
come  up  by  (for  I  saw  they  were  but  weak 
imps,  and  could  not  fly  with  stones  on  their 
backs),  and  then  they  made  traceried  gal- 
leries for  them  to  run  round  by  ;  and  so  up 
again  ;  with  finer  and  finer  work,  till  the 
Egyptians  wondered  w^hether  they  meant. 
the  thing  for  a  tower  or  a  pillar  :  and  I 
heard  them  saying  to  one  another,  "It  was 
nearly  as  pretty  as  lotos  stalks  ;  and  if  it. 
were  not  for  the  ugly  faces  there  would  be  a 
fine  temple,  if  they  were  going  to  build  it. 
all  with  pillars  as  big  as  that  !  "  But  in  a 
minute  afterwards, — just  as  the  Gothic  spirits 
had  carried  their  work  as  high  as  the  upper 
course,  but  three  or  four,  of  the  pyramid — 
the  Egyptians  called  out  to  them  to  ''  mind 
what  they  were  about,  for  the  sand  was 
running  away  from  under  one  of  their  tower 
corners."  But  it  was  too  late  to  mind  what 
they  were  about ;  for,  in  another  instant,  the 
whole  tower  sloped  aside  ;  and  the  Gothic: 


ijS  XTbc  JBthicB  ot  tbc  5)U6t. 

imps  rose  out  of  it  like  a  flight  of  puffins,  in 
a  single  cloud  ;  but  screaming  worse  than 
any  puffins  you  ever  heard  :  and  down  came 
the  tower,  all  in  a  piece,  like  a  falling  pop- 
lar, with  its  head  right  on  the  flank  of  the 
pyramid  ;  against  which  it  snapped  short 
off.     And  of  course  that  waked  me  ! 

Mary.  What  a  shame  of  you  to  have  such 
a  dream,  after  all  you  have  told  us  about 
Gothic  architecture  ! 

L,  If  you  have  understood  anything  I 
•ever  told  you  about  it,  you  know  that  no 
architecture  was  ever  corrupted  more  miser- 
ably ;  or  abolished  more  justly  by  the  ac- 
complishment of  its  own  follies.  Besides, 
•even  in  its  days  of  power,  it  was  subject  to 
•catastrophes  of  this  kind.  I  have  stood  too 
often,  mourning,  by  the  grand  fragment  of 
the  apse  of  Beauvais,  not  to  have  that  fact 
well  burnt  into  me.  Still,  you  must  have 
seen,  surely,  that  these  imps  were  of  the 
Flamboyant  school  ;  or,  at  least,  of  the 
German  schools  correspondent  with  it  in 
extravagance. 

Mary.  But,  then,  where  is  the  crystal  about 
Avhich  you  dreamed  all  this  ? 

L.  Here  ;  but  I  suppose  little  Pthah  has 
touched  it  again,  for  it  is  very  small.  But, 
you  see,  here  is  the  pyramid,  built  of  great 
square  stones  of  fluor  spar,  straight  up  ; 
and  here  are  the  three  little  pinnacles  of 
mischievous  quartz,  which  have  set  them- 
selves, at  the  same  time,  on  the  same  foun- 


Crystal  Caprice^  179 

da-tion  ;  only  they  lean  like  the  tower  of 
Pisa,  and  come  out  obliquely  at  the  side  ; 
and  here  is  one  great  spire  of  quartz  which 
seems  as  if  it  had  been  meant  to  stand 
straight  up,  a  little  way  off ;  and  then  had 
fallen  down  against  the  pyramid  base, 
breaking  its  pinnacle  away.  In  reality,  it 
has  crystallized  horizontally,  and  terminated 
imperfectly  :  but  then,  by  what  caprice 
does  one  crystal  form  horizontally,  when  all 
the  rest  stand  upright  ?  But  this  is  nothing 
to  the  phantasies  of  fluor,  and  quartz,  and 
some  other  such  companions,  when  they 
get  leave  to  do  anything  they  like.  I  could 
show  you  fifty  specimens,  about  every  one 
of  which  you  might  fancy  a  new  fairy  tale. 
Not  that,  in  truth,  any  crystals  get  leave  to 
do  quite  what  they  like  ;  and  many  of  them 
are  sadly  tried,  and  have  little  time  for  ca- 
prices— poor  things  ! 

Mary.  I  thought  they  always  looked  as  if 
they  were  either  in  play  or  in  mischief.? 
What  trials  have  they  ? 

L.  Trials  much  like  our  own.  Sickness, 
and  starvation  ;  fevers,  and  agues,  and 
palsy ;  oppression  ;  and  old  age,  and  the 
necessity  of  passing  away  in  their  time,  like 
all  else.  If  there's  any  pity  in  you,  you 
must  come  to-morrow,  and  take  some  part 
in  these  crystal  griefs. 

Dora.  I  am  sure  we  shall  cry  till  our  eyes 
are  red. 

L.  Ah,  you  may  laugh,  Dora  :  but  I've 


i8o  Zbc  Btbics  ot  tbe  Dust. 

been  made  grave,  not  once,  nor  twice,  to 
see  that  even  crystals  "  cannot  choose  but 
be  old  "  at  last.  It  may  be  but  a  shallow 
proverb  of  the  Justice's ;  but  is  a  shrewdly 
wise  one. 

Dora  {pensive for  once).  I  suppose  it  is- 
very  dreadful  to  be  old  !  But  then  {bright- 
eni7ig  agaiii),  what  should  we  do  without 
our  dear  old  friends,  and  our  nice  old  lect^ 
ures  ? 

L.  If  all  nice  old  lecturers  were  minded 
as  little  as  one  I  know  of — 

Dora.  And  if  they  all  meant  as  little  what 
they  say,  would  they  not  deserve  it  ?  But 
we'll  come, — well  come,  and  cry. 


LECTURE  9. 

CRYSTAL  SORROWS. 


LECTURE  TX. 

CRYSTAL  SORROIVS. 
Working  Lecture  in  Schoolroom, 

L.  We  have  been  hitherto  talking,  chil- 
dren, as  if  crystals  might  live,  and  play, 
and  quarrel,  and  behave  ill  or  well,  accord- 
ing to  their  characters  without  interruption 
from  anything  else.  But  so  far  from  this 
being  so,  nearly  all  crystals,  whatever  their 
characters,  have  to  live  a  hard  life  of  it,  and 
meet  with  many  misfortunes.  It  we  could 
see  far  enough,  we  should  find,  indeed,  that, 
at  the  root,  all  their  vices  were  misfortunes  ; 
but  to-day  I  want  you  to  see  what  sort  of 
troubles  the  best  crystals  have  to  go  through,, 
occasionally,  by  no  fault  of  their  own. 

This  black  thing,  which  is  one  of  the  pret- 
tiest of  the  very  few  pretty  black  things  in 
tlie world,  is  called  ''Tourmaline."  It  may 
be  transparent,  and  green,  or  red,  as  well  as 
black;  and  then  no  stone  can  be  prettier 
(only,  all  the  light  that  gets  into  it,  I  believe, 
comes  out  a  good  deal  the  worse  ;  and  is 
not  itself  again  for  a  long  while).  But  this 
is  the  commonest  state  of  it, — opaque,  and 
as  black  as  jet 

183 


i84  ^be  ;i8tbiC6  of  tbe  Duet 

Mary.   What  does   *' Tourmaline"  mean? 

L.  They  say  it  is  Ceylanese,  and  I  don't 
know  Ceylanese ;  but  we  may  always  be 
thankful  for  a  graceful  word,  whatever  it 
means. 

Mary.   And  what  is  it  made  of? 

L.  A  little  of  everything  ;  there's  always 
flint,  and  clay,  and  magnesia  in  it  ;  and  the 
black  is  iron,  according  to  its  fancy ;  and 
.  there's  boracic  acid,  if  you  know  what  that 
is ;  and  if  you  don't,  I  cannot  tell  you  to- 
day ;  and  it  doesn't  signify  :  and  there's  pot- 
ash, and  soda ;  and,  on  the  whole,  the 
chemistry  of  it  is  more  like  a  mediaeval  doc- 
tor's prescription,  than  the  making  of  a  re- 
spectable mineral  :  but  it  may,  perhaps,  be 
owing  to  the  strange  complexity  of  its  make, 
that  it  has  a  notable  habit  which  makes  it,  to 
me,  one  of  the  most  interesting  of  minerals. 
You  see  these  two  crystals  are  broken  right 
across,  in  many  places,  just  as  if  they  had 
been  shafts  of  black  marble  fallen  from  a 
ruinous  temple  ;  and  here  they  lie,  imbedded 
in  white  quartz,  fragment  succeeding  frag- 
ment, keeping  the  line  of  the  original  crystal, 
while  the  quartz  fills  up  the  intervening 
spaces.  Now  Tourmaline  has  a  trick  of  do- 
ing this,,  more  than  any  other  mineral  I 
know  ;  here  is  another  bit  which  I  picked  up 
on  the  glacier  of  Macugnaga  :  it  is  broken, 
like  a  pillar  built  of  very  flat  broad  stones, 
into  about  thirty  joints,  and  all  these  are 
heaved  and  warped  away  from  each  other 


Crigstal  Sorrows*  185 

sideways,  almost  into  a  line  of  steps  ;  and 
then  all  is  filled  up  with  quartz  paste.  And 
here,  lastly,  is  a  green  Indian  piece,  in  which 
the  pillar  is  first  disjointed,  and  then  wrung- 
round  into  the  shape  of  an  S. 

Mary.  How  can  this  have  been  done.f* 
L.  There  are  a  thousand  ways  in  which 
it  may  have  been  done  ;  the  difficulty  is  not 
to  account  for  the  doing  of  it ;  but  for  the 
showing  of  it  in  some  crystals,  and  not  in 
others.  You  never  by  any  chance  get  a 
quartz  crystal  broken  or  twisted  in  this  way. 
If  it  break  or  twist  at  all,  which  it  does  some- 
limes,  like  the  spire  of  Dijon,  it  is  by  its 
own  will  or  fault ;  it  never  seems  to  have 
been  passively  crushed.  But,  for  the  forces 
which  cause  this  passive  ruin  of  the  tourma- 
line,— here  is  a  stone  which  will  show  you 
multitudes  of  them  in  operation  at  once. 
It  is  known  as  '^brecciated  agate,''  beauti- 
ful, as  you  see  ;  and  highly  valued  as  a  peb- 
ble :  yet,  so  far  as  I  can  read  or  hear,  no 
one  has  ever  looked  at  it  with  the  least  at- 
tention. At  the  first  glance,  you  see  it  is 
made  of  very  fine  red  striped  agates,  which 
have  been  broken  into  small  pieces,  and 
fastened  together  again  by  paste,  also  of 
agate.  There  would  be  nothing  wonderful 
in  this,  if  this  were  all.  It  is  well-known 
that  by  the  movements  of  strata,  portions  of 
Tock  are  often  shattered  to  pieces  : — well 
known  also  that  agate  is  a  deposit  of  flint 
by  water  under  certain  conditions  of  heat 


i86  ^bc  BtblC6  of  tbc  Du6t» 

and  pressure  :  there  is,  therefore,  nothing 
wonderful  in  an  agate's  being  brolcen  ;  and 
nothing  wonderful  in  its  being  mended  with 
the  solution  out  of  which  it  was  itself  orig- 
inally congealed.  And  with  this  explana- 
tion most  people  looking  at  a  brecciated 
agate,  or  brecciated  anything,  seem  to  be 
satisfied.  I  was  so  myself,  for  twenty 
years ;  but,  lately  happening  to  stay  for 
some  time  at  the  Swiss  Baden,  where  the 
beach  of  the  Limmat  is  almost  wholly  com- 
posed of  brecciated  limestones,  I  began  to 
examine  them  thoughtfully  ;  and  perceived, 
in  the  end,  that  they  were,  one  and  all, 
knots  of  as  rich  mystery  as  any  poor  little 
human  brain  was  ever  lost  in.  That  piece 
of  agate  in  your  hand,  Mary,  will  show 
you  many  of  the  common  phenomena  of 
breccias  ;  but  you  need  not  knit  your  brows 
over  it  in  that  way  ;  depend  upon  it,  neither 
you  nor  I  shall  ever  know  anything  about 
the  way  it  was  made,  as  long  as  we  live. 

Dora.  That  does  not  seem  much  to 
depend  upon. 

L.  Pardon  me,  puss.  When  once  we 
gain  some  real  notion  of  the  extent  and  un- 
conquerableness  of  our  ignorance,  it  is  a 
very  broad  and  restful  thing  to  depend  upon  : 
you  can  throw  yourself  upon  it  at  ease,  as 
on  a  cloud  to  feast  with  the  gods.  You  do 
not  thenceforward  trouble  yourself, — nor 
any  one  else, — with  theories,  or  the  contra- 
diction of  theories  ;  you  neither  get  head- 


ache  nor  heart-burning  ;  and  you  never  more 
waste  your  poor  little  store  of  strength  or 
allowance  of  time. 

However,  there  are  certain  facts,  about 
this  gate-making,  which  I  can  tell  you ; 
and  then  you  may  look  at  it  in  :  pleasant 
wonder  as  long  as  you  like  ;  pleasant  won- 
der is  no  loss  of  time. 

First,  then,  it  is  not  broken  freely  by  a 
blow ;  it  is  slowly  wrung,  or  ground,  to 
pieces.  You  can  only  wnth  extreme  dim- 
ness conceive  the  force  exerted  on  mount- 
ains in  transitional  states  of  movement 
You  have  all  read  a  little  geology  ;  and  you 
know  how  coolly  geologists  talk  of  mount- 
ains being  raised  or  depressed.  They  talk 
coolly  of  it,  because  they  are  accustomed  ta 
the  fact  ;  but  the  very  universality  of  the 
fact  prevents  us  from  ever  conceiving  dis- 
tinctly the  conditions  of  force  involved.  You 
know  I  was  living  last  year  in  Savoy  ;  my 
house  was  on  the  back  of  a  sloping  mount- 
ain, which  rose  gradually  for  two  miles 
behind  it ;  and  then  fell  at  once  in  a  great 
precipice  toward  Geneva,  going  down  three 
thousand  feet  in  four  or  five  cliffs,  or  steps.. 
Now  that  whole  group  of  cliffs  had  simply 
been  torn  away  by  sheer  strength  from  the 
rocks  below,  as  if  the  whole  mass  had  been 
as  soft  as  biscuit  Put  four  or  five  captains^^ 
biscuitSi  on  the  floor,  on  the  top  of  one 
another  ;  and  try  to  break  them  all  in  half, 
not   by  bending,   but  by  holding  one   half 


iS8  ^be  letbice  of  tbe  2)U6t» 

down,  and  tearing  the  other  halves  straight 
up  ; — of  course  you  will  not  be  able  to  do  it, 
but  you  will  feel  and  comprehend  the  sort 
of  force  needed.  Then,  fancy  each  captains' 
biscuit  a  bed  of  rock,  six  or  seven  hundred 
feet  thick  ;  and  the  whole  mass  torn  straight 
through ;  and  one  half  heaved  up  three 
Ihousand  feet,  grinding  against  the  other  as 
it  rose, — and  you  will  have  some  idea  of  the 
making  of  the  Mont  Saleve. 

j\Iay.  But  it  must  crush  the  rocks  all  to 
dust. 

L.  No ;  for  there  is  no  room  for  dust. 
The  pressure  is  too  great ;  probably  the  heat 
developed  also  so  great  that  the  rock  is  made 
partly  ductile;  but  the  worst  of  it  is,  that 
we  never  can  see  these  parts  of  mountains 
in  the  state  they  were  left  in  at  the  time  of 
their  elevation  ;  for  it  is  precisely  in  these 
rents  and  dislocations  that  the  crystalline 
power  principally  exerts  itself.  It  is  essen- 
tially a  styptic  power,  and  wherever  the  earth 
is  torn,  it  heals  and  binds  ;  nay,  the  torture 
and  grieving  of  the  earth  seem  necessary  to 
bring  out  its  full  energy  ;  for  you  only  find 
the  crystalline  living  powerfully  in  action, 
where  the  rents  and  faults  are  deep  and 
many. 

Dora.  If  you  please,  sir, — would  you  tell 
us — what  are  "  faults  "  ? 

L.   You  never  heard  of  such  things  ? 

Dora.   Never  in  all  our  lives. 

L.   When  a  vein  of  rock,  which  is  going  on 


Crystal  Sorrows.  189 

smoothly,  is  interrupted  by  another  trouble- 
some little  vein,  which  stops  it,  and  puts  it 
out  so  that  it  has  to  begin  again  in  another 
place — that  is  called  a  fault.  /  always  think 
it  ought  to  be  called  the  fault  of  the  veia 
that  interrupts  it ;  but  the  miners  always  call 
it  the  fault  of  the  vein  that  is  interrupted. 

Dora.  So  it  is,  if  it  does  not  begin  again 
where  it  left  off. 

L.  Well,  that  is  certainly  the  gist  of  the 
business  :  but,  whatever  good-natured  old 
lecturers  may  do,  the  rocks  have  a  bad  habit, 
when  they  are  once  interrupted,  of  never 
asking  "  Where  was  I  ?  " 

Dora.  When  the  two  halves  of  the  dining- 
table  came  separate,  yesterday,  was  that  a. 
^' fault".? 

L.  Yes  ;  but  not  the  table's.  However, 
it  is  not  a  bad  illustration,  Dora.  When, 
beds  of  rock  are  only  interrupted  by  a  fissure, 
but  remain  at  the  same  level,  like  the  two- 
halves  of  the  table,  it  is  not  called  a  fault, 
but  only  a  fissure  ;  but  if  one  half  of  the 
table  be  either  tilted  higher  than  the  other, 
or  pushed  to  the  side,  so  that  the  two  parts 
will  not  fit,  it  is  a  fault.  You  had  better 
read  the  chapter  on  faults  in  Jukes 's  Geology  ; 
then  you  will  know  all  about  it.  And  this. 
rent  that  I  am  telling  you  of  in  the  Saleve, 
is  one  only  of  myriads,  to  which  are  owing^ 
the  forms  of  the  Alps,  as,  I  believe,  of  all 
great  mountain  chains.  Wherever  you  see 
a  precipice  on  any  scale  of  real  magnifi- 


190  Zbc  jBtbice  ot  Voc  Dixst* 

ccnce,  you  will  nearly  always  find  it  owing" 
i;o  some  dislocation  of  this  kind  ;  but  the 
point  of  chief  wonder  to  me  is,  the  delicacy 
-of  the  touch  by  which  these  gigantic  rents 
have  been  apparently  accomplished.  Note, 
liowever,  that  we  have  no  clear  evidence, 
hitherto,  of  the  time  taken  to  produce  any 
of  them.  We  know  that  a  change  of  tem- 
perature alters  the  position  and  the  angles 
•of  the  atoms  of  crystals,  and  also  the  entire 
bulk  of  rocks.  We  know  that  in  all  volcanic, 
.and  the  greater  part  of  all  subterranean, 
action,  temperatures  are  continually  chang- 
ing, and  therefore  masses  of  rock  must  be 
-expanding  or  contracting,  with  infinite  slow- 
ness, but  with  infinite  force.  This  pressure 
must  result  in  mechanical  strain  somewhere, 
l3oth  in  their  own  substance,  and  in  that  of 
the  rocks  surrounding  them  :  and  we  can 
form  no  conception  of  the  result  of  irresist- 
ible pressure,  applied  so  as  to  rend  and 
raise,  with  imperceptible  slowness  of  grada- 
tion, masses  thousands  of  feet  m  thickness. 
We  want  some  experiments  tried  on  masses 
of  iron  and  stone  ;  and  we  can't  get  them 
tried,  because  Christian  creatures  never  will 
.seriously  and  sufficiently  spend  money,  ex- 
cept to  find  out  the  shortest  way  of  killing 
each  other.  But,  besides  this  slow  kind  of 
pressure,  there  is  evidence  of  more  or  less 
sudden  violence,  on  the  same  terrific  scale; 
and,  through  it  all,  the  wonder,  as  I  said,  is 
always  to  me  the  delicacy  of  touch.     I  cut 


a  block  of  the  Saleve  limestone  from  the  edge 
of  one  of  the  principal   faults  which   have 
:  formed  the  precipice  ;  it  is  a  lovely  compact 
j  limestone,  and  the  fault  itself  is  filled  up  with 
[  a  red  breccia,  formed  of  the  crushed  frag- 
ments of  the  torn  rock,  cemented  by  a  rich 
red  crystalline  paste.      I  have  had  the  piece 
;   I  cut  from  it  smoothed,  and  polished  across 
.   the  junction  ;  here  it  is  ;  and  you  may  now 
pass  your  soft  little  fingers  over  the  surface, 
without  so  much  as  feeling  the  place  w^here 
a  rock  which  all  the  hills^of  England  might 
have  been  sunk  in  the   body  of,  and   not  a 
summit  seen,  was  torn  asunder  through  that 
whole  thickness,  as  a  thin  dress  is  torn  when 
"  you  tread  upon  it. 

{Tlie   audiefice   examine   the   stone,    and 
touch  it  timidly,  hut  the  matter  remains 
inconceivable  to  them.) 
Mary  {struck  by  the  beauty  of  the  stone). 
Eut  this  is  almost  marble } 

L.  It  is  quite  marble.  And  another  sin- 
gular point  in  the  business,  to  my  mind,  is 
that  these  stones,  which  men  have  been  cut- 
ting into  slabs,  for  thousands  of  years,  to 
ornament  their  principal  buildings  with, — 
and  which,  under  the  general  name  of  "  mar- 
ble," have  been  the  delight  of  the  eyes,  and 
the  wealth  of  architecture,  among  all  civil- 
ized nations, — are  precisely  those  on  which 
the  sjgns  and  brands  of  these  earth  agonies 
have  been  chiefly  struck  ;  and  there  is  not  a 
purple  vein  nor  flaming  zone  in  them,  which 


192  ^be  :6tbiC5  of  tbc  S)u6t» 

is  not  the  record  of  their  ancient  torture. 
What  a  boundless  capacity  for  sleep,  and  for 
serene  stupidity,  there  is  in  the  human  mind  t 
Fancy  reflective  beings,  who  cut  and  polish 
stones  for  three  thousand  years,  for  the  sake 
of  the  pretty  stains  upon  them  ;  and  edu- 
cate themselves  to  an  art  at  last  (such  as  it 
is),  of  imitating-  these  veins  by  dexterous 
painting  ;  and  never  a  curious  soul  of  them, 
all  that  while,  asks,  "What  painted  the 
rocks  ? '' 

(77z^  audience  look  dejected^  and  ashamed 
of  themselves. ) 

The  fact  is,  we  are  all,  and  always,  asleep, 
through  our  lives  ;  and  it  is  only  by  pinch- 
ing ourselves  very  hard  that  we  ever  come  ta 
see,  or  understand,  anything.  At  least,  it  is 
not  always  we  who  pinch  ourselves  ;  some- 
times other  people  pinch  us  ;  which  I  sup- 
pose is  very  good  of  them, — or  other  things, 
which  I  suppose  is  very  proper  of  them. 
But  it  is  a  sad  life  ;  made  up  chiefly  of  naps, 
and  pinches. 

{Some  o/ the  audience,  on  this,  appearing- 
to  think  that  the  others  require  pinch- 
ing, the  Lecturer  changes  the  subject. ) 

Now,  however,  for  once,  look  at  a  piece 
of  marble  carefully,  and  think  about  it. 
You  see  this  is  one  side  of  the  fault  ;  the 
other  side  is  down  or  up,  nobody  knows 
where  :  but,  on  this  side,  you  can  trace  the 
evidence  of  the  dragging  and  tearing  action. 
All  along  the  edge  of  this  marble,  the  ends 


Crystal  Sorrows.  193 

of  the  fibers  of  the  rock  are  torn,  here  an  inch, 
and  there  half  an  inch,  away  from  each 
other  ;  and  you  see  the  exact  places  where 
they  fitted,  before  they  were  torn  separate : 
and  you  see  the  rents  are  now  all  filled  up 
with  the  sanguine  paste,  full  of  the  broken 
pieces  of  the  rock  ;  the  paste  itself  seems  to 
have  been  half  melted,  and  partly  to  have 
also  melted  the  edge  of  the  fragments  it  con- 
tains, and  then  to  have  crystallized  with 
them,  and  round  them.  And  the  brecciated 
agate  I  first  showed  you  contains  exactly  the 
same  phenomena  ;  a  zoned  crystallization 
going  on  amidst  the  cemented  fragments, 
partly  altering  the  structure  of  those  frag- 
ments themselves,  and  subject  to  continual 
change,  either  in  the  intensity  of  its  own 
power,  or  in  the  nature  of  the  materials  sub- 
mitted to  it ; — so  that,  at  one  time,  gravity 
acts  upon  them,  and  disposes  them  in  hori- 
zontal layers,  or  causes  them  to  droop  in 
stalactites  ;  and  at  another,  gravity  is  en- 
tirely defied,  and  the  substances  in  solution 
are  crystallized  in  bands  of  equal  thickness 
on  every  side  of  the  cell.  It  would  require  a 
course  of  lectures  longer  than  these  (I  have 
a  great  mind — you  have  behaved  so  saucily 
— to  stay  and  give  them)  to  describe  to  you 
the  phenomena  of  this  kind,  in  agates  and 
chalcedonies  only  ; — nay,  there  is  a  single 
sarcophagus  in  the  British  Museum,  covered 
with  grand  sculpture  of  the  i8th  dynasty, 
which    contains    in     magnificent     breccia 

13 


194  ^t>^  lBtbiC6  ot  tbe  Dust* 

(agates  and  jaspers  imbedded  in  porphyry), 
out  of  which  it  is  hewn,  material  for  the 
thought  of  years  ;  and  recorded  of  the  earth- 
sorrow  of  ages  in  comparison  with  the  dura- 
tion of  which,  the  Egyptian  letters  tell  us 
but  the  history  of  the  evening  and  morning 
of  a  day. 

Agates,  I  think,  of  all  stones,  confess 
most  of  their  past  history  ;  but  all  crystalli- 
zation goes  on  under,  and  partly  records  cir- 
cumstances of  this  kind — circumstances  of 
infinite  variety,  but  always  involving  diffi-. 
culty,  interruption,  and  change  of  condition 
at  different  times.  Observe,  first,  you  have 
the  whole  mass  of  the  rock  in  motion,  either 
contracting  itself,  and  so  gradually  widen- 
ing the  cracks  ;  or  being  compressed,  and 
thereby  closing  them,  and  crushing  their 
edges  ; — and,  if  one  part  of  its  substance 
be  softer,  at  the  given  temperature,  than 
another,  probably  squeezing  that  softer 
substance  out  into  the  veins.  Then  the 
veins  themselves,  when  the  rock  leaves 
them  open  by  its  contraction,  act  with 
various  power  of  suction  upon  its  sub- 
stance ; — by  capillary  attraction  when  they 
are  fine, — by  that  of  pure  vacuity  when 
they  are  larger,  or  by  changes  in  the  con- 
stitution and  condensation  of  the  mixed 
gases  with  which  they  have  been  originally 
filled.  Those  gases  themselves  may  be  sup- 
plied in  all  variation  of  volume  and  power 
from  below  ;  or,  slovyly,  by  the  decomposi- 


Cri^stal  Sorrows.  195 

lion  of  the  rocks  themselves  ;  and,  at  chang- 
ing temperatures,  must  exert  relatively 
changing  forces  of  decomposition  and  com- 
bination on  the  walls  of  the  veins  they  fill  ; 
while  water,  at  every  degree  of  heat  and 
pressure  (from  beds  of  everlasting  ice,  alter- 
nate with  cliffs  of  native  rock,  to  volumes  of 
red  hot,  or  white  hot  steam),  congeals,  and 
drips,  and  throbs,  and  thrills,  from  crag  to 
crag  ;  and  breathes  from  pulse  to  pulse  of 
foaming  or  fiery  arteries,  whose  beating  is  felt 
through  chains  of  the  great  islands  of  the  In- 
dian seas,  as  your  own  pulses  lift  your  brace- 
lets, and  makes  whole  kingdoms  of  the  world 
quiver  in  deadly  earthquake,  as  if  they  were 
light  as  aspen  leaves.  And,  remember,  the 
poor  little  crystals  have  to  live  their  lives, 
and  mind  their  own  affairs,  in  the  midst  of 
all  this,  as  best  they  may.  They  are  won- 
derfully like  human  creatures, — forget  all 
that  is  going  on  if  they  don't  see  it,  how- 
ever dreadful  ;  and  never  think  what  is  to 
happen  to-morrow.  They  are  spiteful  or 
loving,  and  indolent  or  painstaking,  and 
orderly  or  licentious,  with  no  thought  what- 
ever of  the  lava  or  the  flood  which  may 
break  over  them  any  day  ;  and  evaporate 
them  into  air-bubbles,  or  wash  them  into  a 
solution  of  salts.  And  you  may  look  at 
them,  once  understanding  the  surrounding 
conditions  of  their  fate,  with  an  endless  in- 
terest. You  will  see  crowds  of  unfortunate 
little  crystals,  who  have  been  forced  to  con- 


196  ^be  ietbiC6  ot  tbe  Dust 

stitute  themselves  in  a  hurry,  their  dissolving' 
element  being  fiercely  scorched  away  ;  you 
will  see  them  doing  their  best,  bright  and 
numberless,  but  tiny.  Then  you  will  find 
indulged  crystals,  who  have  had  centuries  to 
form  themselves  in,  and  have  changed  their 
mind  and  ways  continually  ;  and  have  been 
tired,  and  taken  heart  again  ;  and  have  been 
sick,  and  got  well  again  ;  and  thought  they 
would  try  a  different  diet,  and  then  thought 
better  of  it ;  and  made  but  a  poor  use  of  their 
advantages,  after  all.  And  others  you  will 
see,  who  have  begun  life  as  wicked  crystals  ; 
and  then  have  been  impressed  by  alarming- 
circumstances,  and  have  become  converted 
crystals,  and  behaved  amazingly  for  a  little 
while,  and  fallen  away  again,  and  ended, 
but  discreditably,  perhaps  even  in  decompo- 
sition ;  so  that  one  doesn't  know  what  will 
become  of  them.  And  sometimes  you  will 
see  deceitful  crystals,  that  look  as  soft  as  vel« 
vet,  and  are  deadly  to  all  near  them;  and 
sometimes  you  will  see  deceitful  crystals,  that 
seem  flint-edged,  like  our  little  quartz-crystal 
of  a  housekeeper  here  (hush  !  Dora),  and  are 
endlessly  gentle  and  true  wherever  gentle- 
ness and  truth  are  needed.  And  sometimes 
you  will  see  little  child-crystals  put  to  school 
like  school-girls,  and  made  to  stand  in  rows  ; 
and  taken  the  greatest  care  of,  and  taught 
how  to  hold  themselves  up,  and  behave  :  and 
sometimes  you  will  see  unhappy  little  child- 
crystals  left  to  lie  about  in  the  dirt,  and  pick 


Cri26tal  Sorrows^  197 

up  their  living-,  and  learn  manners  where  they 
can.  And  sometimes  you  will  see  fat  crys- 
tals eating  up  thin  ones,  like  g-reat  capitalists 
and  little  laborers  ;  and  politico-economic 
crystals'  teachings- the  stupid  ones  how  to  eat 
each  other,  and  cheat  each  other ;  and  fool- 
ish crystals  getting  in  the  way  of  wise  ones  ; 
and  impatient  crystals  spoiling  the  plans  of 
patient  ones,  irreparably  ;  just  as  things  go 
on  in  the  world.  And  sometimes  you  may 
see  hypocritical  crystals  taking  the  shape  of 
others,  though  they  are  nothing  like  in  their 
minds ;  and  vampire  crystals  eating  out  the 
hearts  of  others  ;  and  hermit-crab  crystals 
living  in  the  shells  of  others  ;  and  parasite 
crystals  living  on  the  means  of  others  ;  and 
courtier  crystals  glittering  in  attendance  upon 
others  ;  and  all  these,  besides  the  two  great 
companies  of  war  and  peace,  who  ally  them- 
selves, resolutely  to  attack,  or  resolutely  to 
defend.  And  for  the  close,  you  see  the 
broad  shadow  and  deadly  force  of  inevitable 
fate,  above  all  this  :  you  see  the  multitudes 
of  crystals  whose  time  has  come  ;  not  a  set 
time,  as  with  us,  but  yet  a  time,  sooner  or 
later,  when  they  all  must  give  up  their  crys- 
tal ghosts  : — when  the  strength  by  which 
they  grew  and  the  breath  given  them  to 
breathe,  pass  away  from  them  ;  and  they  fail, 
and  are  consumed,  and  vanish  away  ;  and 
another  generation  is  brought  to  life,  framed 
out  of  their  ashes. 

Mary.   It   is  very  terrible.     Is   it  not  the 


198  ^be  Btbic6  ot.tbe  2)u6t 

complete  fulfillment,  down  into  the  very 
dust,  of  that  verse:  ''The  whole  creation 
groaneth  and  travaileth  in  pain  "  ? 

L.  I  do  not  know  that  it  is  in  pain,  Mary  r 
at  least,  the  evidence  tends  to  show  that 
there  is  much  more  pleasure  than  pain,  aa 
soon  as  sensation  becomes  possible. 

LuciLLA.  But  then,  surely,  if  we  are  told 
that  it  is  pain,  it  must  be  pain  ? 

L.  Yes ;  if  we  are  told  ;  and  told  in  the 
way  you  mean,  Lucilla  ;  but  nothing  is  said 
of  the  proportion  to  pleasure.  Unmitigated 
pain  would  kill  any  of  us  in  a  few  hours  : 
pain  equal  to  our  pleasures  would  make  us 
loathe  life  ;  the  word  itself  cannot  be  applied 
to  the  lower  conditions  of  matter  in  its  or« 
dinary  sense.  But  wait  till  to-morrow  to 
ask  me  about  this.  To-morrow  is  to  be  kept 
for  questions  and  difficulties  ;  let  us  keep  to 
the  plain  facts  to-day.  There  is  yet  one 
group  of  facts  connected  with  this  rending 
of  the  rocks,  which  I  especially  want  you 
to  notice.  You  know,  when  you  have 
mended  a  very  old  dress,  quite  meritoriously, 
till  it  won't  mend  any  more 

Y.QXvT{i7iterrupting).  Could  not  you  some~ 
times  take  gentlemen's  work  to  illustrate  by  > 

L.  Gentlemen's  work  is  rarely  so  useful 
as  yours,  Egypt  ;  and  when  it  is  useful, 
girls  cannot  easily  understand  it. 

Dora.  I  am  sure  we  should  understand  it 
better  than  gentlemen  understand  about 
;  sewing. 


Cri26tal  Sorrows*  199 

L.  My  dear.  I  hope  I  always  speak 
modestly,  and  under  correction,  when  I 
touch  upon  matters  of  the  kind  too  high  for 
me  ;  and  besides,  I  never  intend  to  speak 
otherwise  than  respectfully  of  sewing ; — 
though  you  always  seem  to  think  I  am 
laughing  at  you.  In  all  seriousness,  illus- 
trations from  sewing  are  those  which  Neith 
likes  me  best  to  use ;  and  which  young 
ladies  ought  to  like  everybody  to  use. 
What  do  you  think  the  beautiful  word 
'*  wife  "  comes  from.? 

Dora  {iossmg  her  head).  I  don't  think  it 
is  a  particularly  beautiful  word. 

L.  Perhaps  not.  At  your  ages  you  may 
think  ''  bride  ''  sounds  better  ;  but  wife's  the 
word  for  wear,  depend  upon  it.  It  is  the 
great  word  in  which  the  English  and  Latin 
languages  conquer  the  French  and  the  Greek. 
I  hope  the  French  will  some  day  get  a  word 
for  it,  yet,  insteadof  their  dreadful  "femme." 
But  what  do  you  think  it  comes  from  } 

Dora.   I  never  did  think  about  it. 

L.   Nor  you,  Sibyl } 

Sibyl.  No  ;  I  thought  it  was  Saxon,  and 
stopped  there. 

L.  Yes  ;  but  the  great  good  of  Saxon 
words  is,  that  they  usually  do  mean  some- 
thing. Wife  means  ''  weaver."  You  have 
all  the  right  to  call  yourselves  little  '/  house- 
wives," when  you  sew  neatly. 

Dora.  But  I  don't  think  we  want  to  call 
ourselves  ''  httle  housewives." 


200  ^bc  JSthics  ot  tbe  DixeU 

L.  You  must  either  be  house-Wives,  or 
house-Moths  ;  remember  that.  In  the  deep 
s^se,  you  must  either  weave  men's  fort- 
unes, and  embroider  them;  or  feed  upon, 
and  bring  them  to  decay.  You  had  better 
let  me  keep  my  sewing  illustration,  and 
help  me  out  with  it. 

Dora.  Well,   we'll  hear  it,  under  protest. 

L.  You  have  heard  it  before  ;  but  with 
reference  to  other  matters.  W^hen  it  is  said, 
*'  No  man  putteth  a  piece  of  new  cloth  on 
an  old  garment,  else  it  taketh  from  the  old," 
does  it  not  mean  that  the  new  piece  tears 
the  old  one  away  at  the  sewn  edge  ? 

Dora.   Yes ;  certainly. 

L.  And  when  you  mend  a  decayed  stuff 
with  strong  thread,  does  not  the  whole 
edge  come  away  sometimes,  when  it  tears 
again  ? 

Dora.  Yes  ;  and  then  it  is  of  no  use  to 
mend  it  any  more. 

L.  Well,  the  rocks  don't  seem  to  think 
that  :  but  the  same  thing  happens  to  them 
continually.  I  told  you  they  were  full  of 
rents,  or  veins.  Large  masses  of  mountain 
are  sometimes  as  full  of  veins  as  your  hand 
is ;  and  of  veins  nearly  as  fine  (only  you 
know  a  rock  vein  does  not  mean  a  tube,  but 
a  crack  or  cleft).  Now  these  clefts  are 
mended,  usually,  with  the  strongest  mate- 
rial the  rock  can  find ;  and  often  literally 
with  threads  ;  for  the  gradually  opening  rent 
seems  to  draw  the  substance  it  is  filled  with 


Crystal  Sorrows,  201 

into  fibers,  which  cross  from  one  side  of  it 
to  the  other,  and  are  partly  crystalline  ;  so 
that  when  the  crystals  become  distinct,  the 
fissure  has  often  exactly  the  look  of  a  tear, 
brought  together  with  strong  cross  stitches. 
Now  when  this  is  completely  done,  and  all 
has  been  fastened  and  made  firm,  perhaps 
:some  new  change  of  temperature  may  occur 
and  the  rock  begin  to  contract  again.  Then 
the  old  vein  must  open  wider ;  or  else 
another  open  elsewhere.  If  the  old  vein 
widen,  it  may  do  so  at  its  center;  but  it 
constantly  happens,  with  well  filled  veins, 
that  the  cross  stitches  are  too  strong  to 
break  ;  the  walls  of  the  vein,  instead,  are 
torn  away  by  them  :  and  another  little  sup- 
plementary vein — often  three  or  four  suc- 
cessively— will  be  thus  formed  at  the  side  of 
the  first. 

Mary.  That  is  really  very  much  like  our 
work.  But  what  do  the  mountains  use  to 
:sew  with? 

L.  Quartz,  whenever  they  can  get  it  :  pure 
limestones  are  obliged  to  be  content  with 
carbonate  of  lime ;  but  most  mixed  rocks 
can  find  some  quartz  for  themselves.  Here 
is  a  piece  of  black  slate  from  the  Buet :  it  looks 
merely  like  dry  dark  mud  ;  you  could  not 
think  there  was  any  quartz  in  it ;  but,  you 
.see,  its  rents  are  all  stitched  together  with 
beautiful  white  thread,  which  is  the  purest 
quartz,  so  close  drawn  that  you  can  break  it 
like  flint,  in  the  mass  ;  but,  where  it  has  been 


202  Zbc  iBthics  ot  tbe  Bust 

exposed  to  the  weather,  the  fine  fibrous  struc- 
ture is  shown  :  and,  more  than  that,  you  see 
the  threads  have  been  all  twisted  and  pulled 
aside,  this  way  and  the  other,  by  the  warp- 
ings  and  shifting  of  the  sides  of  the  vein  as 
it  widened. 

Mary.  It  is  wonderful  !  But  is  that  going 
on  still  ?  Are  the  mountains  being  torn  and 
sewn  together  again  at  this  moment  ? 

L.  Yes,  certainly,  my  dear  :  but  I  think, 
just  as  certainly  (though  geologists  differ 
on  this  matter),  not  with  the  violence,  or 
on  the  scale,  of  their  ancient  ruin  and  re- 
newal. 

All  things  seem  to  be  tending  towards  a 
condition  of  at  least  temporary  rest;  and 
that  groaning  and  travailing  of  the  creation, 
as,  assuredly,  not  wholly  in  pain,  is  not,  in 
the  full  sense,   *'  until  now.'' 

Mary.  I  want  so  much  to  ask  you  about 
that ! 

Sibyl.  Yes  ;  and  we  all  want  to  ask  you 
about  a  great  many  other  things  besides. 

L.  It  seems  to  me  that  you  have  got  quite 
as  many  new  ideas  as  are  good  for  any  of 
you  at  present  :  and  I  should  not  like  to 
burden  you  with  more  ;  but  I  must  see  that 
those  you  have  are  clear,  if  I  can  make  them 
so  ;  so  we  will  have  one  more  talk,  for  answer 
of  questions,  mainly.  Think  over  all  the 
ground,  and  make  your  difficulties  thoroughly 
presentable.  Then  we'll  see  what  we  can 
make  of  them. 


Cri26tal  Sorrows*  203 

Dora.  They  shall  all  be  dresed  in  their 
very  best ;  and  curtsey  as  they  come  in. 

L.  No,  no,  Dora  ;  no  curtseys,  if  you 
please.  I  had  enough  of  them  the  day  you 
all  took  a  fit  of  reverence,  and  curtsied  me 
out  of  the  room. 

Dora.  But,  you  know,  we  cured  ourselves 
of  the  fault,  at  once,  by  that  fit.  We  have 
never  been  the  least  respectful  since.  And 
the  difficulties  will  only  curtsey  themselves 
out  of  the  room,  I  hope  ; — come  in  at  one 
door — vanish  at  the  other. 

L.  What  a  pleasant  world  it  would  be,  if 
all  its  difficulties  were  taught  to  behave  so  ! 
However,  one  can  generally  made  some- 
thing, or  (better  still)  nothing,  or  at  least 
less,  of  them,  if  they  thoroughly  know  their 
own  minds  ;  and  your  difficulties — I  must 
say  that  for  you,  children, — generally  da 
know  their  own  minds,  as  you  do  your-^ 
selves. 

Dora.  That  is  very  kindly  said  for  us. 
Some  people  would  not  allow  so  much  as 
that  girls  had  any  minds  to  know. 

L.  They  will  at  least  admit  that  you  have 
minds  to  change,    Dora. 

Mary.  You  might  have  left  us  the  last 
speech,  without  a  retouch.  But  we'll  put 
our  little  minds,  such  as  they  are,  in  the  best 
trim  we  can,  for  to-morrow. 


LECTURE  10. 

THE  CRYSTAL  REST. 


LECTURE  K 

THE  CRYSTAL  REST, 

Evening.      The    fireside.     L.'j"   arm-chair    in    the 
comfortable   corner. 

L.  (^perceiving  various  arrangements  being 
Tnade  o/ footstool,  cushion,  screen,  and  the 
like).  Yes,  yes,  it's  all  very  fine  I  and  I  am 
to  sit  here  to  be  asked  questions  till  supper- 
time,  am  I  ? 

Dora.  I  don't  think  you  can  have  any 
supper  to-night  : — we've  got  so  much  to 
ask. 

Lily.  Oh,  Miss  Dora  !  We  can  fetch  it 
him  here,  you  know,  so  nicely  ! 

L.  Yes,  Lily,  that  will  be  pleasant,  with 
competitive  examination  going  on  over  ones 
plate  :  the  competition  being  among  the 
examiners.  Really,  now  that  I  know  what 
teasing  things  girls  are,  I  don't  so  much 
wonder  that  people  used  to  put  up  patiently 
with  the  dragons  who  took  them  for  supper. 
I3ut  I  can't  help  myself,  I  suppose  ; — no 
thanks  to  St.  George.  Ask  away,  children, 
and  I'll  answer  as  civilly  as  may  be. 

Dora.  We  don't  so  much  care  about  being 
answered  civilly,  as  about  not  being  asked 
things  back  again. 

207 


2o8  Zbc  Btbics  ot  tbe  2)u6t» 

L.  ''  Ayez  seulement  la  patience  que  je  le- 
parle. "     There  shall  be  no  requitals. 

Dora.  Well,  then,  first  of  all— What  shall 
we  ask  first,  Mary  ? 

Mary.  It  does  not  matter.  I  think  all  the 
questions  come  into  one,  at  last,  nearly. 

Dora.  You  know,  you  always  talk  as  if 
the  crystals  were  alive  ;  and  we  never  under- 
stand how  much  you  are  in  play,  and  how 
much  in  earnest.      That's  the  first  thing. 

L.  Neither  do  T  understand,  myself,  my^ 
dear,  how  much  I  am  in  earnest.  The  stones, 
puzzle  me  as  much  as  I  puzzle  you.  They 
look  as  if  they  were  alive,  and  make  me 
speak  as  if  they  were  ;  and  I  do  not  in  the 
least  know  how  much  truth  there  is  in  the 
appearance.  Tm  not  to  ask  things  back 
again  to-night,  but  all  questions  of  this  sort 
lead  necessarily  to  the  one  main  question, 
which  we  asked,  before,  in  vain,  *'  What  is 
it  to  be  alive  ?  " 

Dora.  Yes  ;  but  we  want  to  come  back  to 
that :  for  we've  been  reading  scientific  books 
about  the  '* conservation  of  forces,"  audit 
seems  all  so  grand,  and  wonderful ;  and  the 
experiments  are  so  pretty  ;  and  I  suppose  it 
must  be  all  right  :  but  then  the  books  never 
speak  as  if  there  were  any  such  thing  as 
*Mife" 

L.  They  mostly  omit  that  part  of  the  sub- 
ject, certainly,  Dora  ;  but  they  are  beautifully 
right  as  far  as  they  go  ;  and  life  is  not  a  con- 
venient element  to  deal  with.     They  seem 


Zbc  Crystal  1Rc6t»  209 

to  have  been  getting  some  of  it  into  and  out 
of  bottles,  in  their  ''  ozone  '*  and  "  antizone" 
lately  ;  but  they  still  know  little  of  it  :  and, 
certainly,  I  know  less. 

Dora.  You  promised  not  to  be  provoking, 
to-night. 

L.  Wait  a  minute.  Though,  quite  truly, 
I  know  less  of  the  secrets  of  life  than  the 
philosophers  do  ;  I  yet  know  one  corner  of 
ground  on  which  we  artists  can  stand,  liter- 
ally as  "  Life  Guards  ''  at  bay,  as  steadily  as 
the  Guards  at  Inkermann  ;  however  hard  the 
philosophers  push.  And  you  may  stand 
with  us,  if  once  you  learn  to  draw  nicely. 

Dora.  I'm  sure  we  arc  all  trying  !  but  tell 
us  where  we  may  stand. 

L.  You  may  always  stand  by  Form, 
against  Force.  To  a  painter,  the  essential, 
character  of  anything  is  the  form  of  it,  and 
the  philosophers  cannot  touch  that.  They 
come  and  tell  you,  for  instance,  that  there 
is  as  much  heat,  or  motion,  or  calorific 
energy  (or  whatever  else  they  like  to  call  it), 
m  a  tea-kettle  as  in  a  Gier-eagle.  Ver^ 
good  ;  that  is  so  ;  and  it  is  very  interesting. 
It  requires  just  as  much  heat  as  will  boil  the 
kettle,  to  take  the  Gier-eagle  up  to  his  nest  ; 
and  as  much  more  to  bring  him  down  again 
on  a  hare  or  a  partridge.  But  we  painters, 
acknowledging  the  equality  and  similarity^ 
of  the  kettle  and  the  bird  in  all  scientific 
respects,  attach,  for  our  part,  our  principal 
interest  to  the  difference  in  their  forms.     For 


2IO  TTbe  lBtbiC6  ot  tbe  Du6t 

us,  the  primarily  cognizable  facts,  in  the  two 
things,  are,  that  the  kettle  has  a  spout,  and 
the  eagle  a  beak  ;  the  one  a  lid  on  its  back, 
the  other  a  pair  of  wings  ; — not  to  speak  of 
the  distinction  also  of  volition,  which  the 
philosophers  may  properly  call  merely  a 
form,  or  mode  of  force  ; — but  then,  to  an 
artist,  the  form,  or  mode,  is  the-  gist  of  the 
lousiness.  The  kettle  chooses  to  sit  still  on 
the  hob;  the  eagle  to  recline  on  the  air.  It 
is  the  fact  of  the  choice,  not  the  equal  degree 
of  temperature  in  the  fulfillment  of  it,  which 
appears  to  us  the  more  interesting  circum- 
stance ; — though  the  other  is  very  interesting 
too.  Exceedingly  so  !  Don't  laugh,  chil- 
dren ;  the  philosophers  have  been  doing 
quite  splendid  work  lately,  in  their  own 
way  :  especially,  the  transformation  of  force 
into  light  is  a  great  piece  of  systematized 
discovery  ;  and  this  notion  about  the  suns 
being  supplied  with  his  flame  by  ceaseless 
meteoric  hail  is  grand,  and  looks  very  likely 
to  be  true.  Of  course,  it  is  only  the  old  gun- 
lock, — flint  and  steel, — on  a  large  scale: 
but  the  order  and  majesty  of  it  are  sublime. 
Still,  we  sculptors  and  painters  care  little 
about  it.  ''It  is  very  fine,'*  we  say,  "and 
very  useful,  this  knocking  the  light  out  of 
the  sun,  or  into  it,  by  an  eternal  cataract  of 
planets.  But  you  may  hail  away,  so,  for- 
ever, and  you  will  not  knock  out  what  we 
can.  Here  is  a  bit  of  silver,  not  the  size  of 
half-a-crown,  on  which,  with  a  single  ham- 


^be  Crystal  IRest  211 

Tner  stroke,  one  of  us,  two  thousand  and  odd 
years  ago,  hit  out  the  head  of  the  Apollo  of 
Clazomenae.  It  is  merely  a  matter  of  form  ; 
but  if  any  of  you  philosophers,  with  your 
whole  planetary  system  to  hammer  with, 
can  hit  out  such  another  bit  of  silver  as  this, 
— we  will  take  off  our  hats  to  you.  For  the 
present,  we  keep  them  on/' 

Mary.  Yes,  I  imderstand ;  and  that  is 
nice  ;  but  I  don't  think  we  shall  any  of  us 
like  having  only  form  to  depend  upon. 

L.  It  was  not  neglected  in  the  making 
of  Eve,  my  dear. 

Mary,  It  does  not  seem  to  separate  us 
from  the  dust  of  the  ground.  It  is  that 
breathing  of  the  life  which  we  want  to  un- 
derstand. 

L.  So  you  should  :  but  hold  fast  to  the 
form,  and  defend  that  first,  as  distinguished 
from  the  mere  transition  of  forces.  Discern 
the  molding  hand  of  the  potter  command- 
ing the  clay,  from  his  merely  beating  foot, 
as  it  turns  the  wheel.  If  you  can  find  in- 
cense, in  the  vase,  afterwards, — well  :  but 
it  is  curious  how  far  mere  form  will  carry 
you  ahead  of  the  philosophers.  For  in- 
stance, with  regard  to  the  most  interesting 
of  all  their  modes  of  force — light  ; — they 
never  consider  how  far  the  existence  of  it 
depends  on  the  putting  of  certain  vitreous 
and  nervous  substances  into  the  formal  ar- 
rangement which  we  call  an  eye.  The  Ger- 
man  philosophers   began   the   attack,  long 


212  Zbc  )EtbiC6  ot  tbc  Dust 

ago,  on  the  other  side,  by  telling  us,  there 
was  no  such  thing  as  light  at  all,  unless  we 
chose  to  see  it  :  now,  German  and  English, 
both,  have  reversed  their  engines,  and  in- 
sist that  light  would  be  exactly  the  same 
light  that  it  is,  though  nobody  could  ever 
see  it.  The  fact  being  that  the  force  must 
be  there,  and  the  eyes  there;  and  'Might'* 
means  the  effect  of  the  one  on  the  other  ; — 
and  perhaps,  also — (Plato  saw  farther  into 
that  mystery  than  any  one  has  since,  that. 
I  know  of), — on  something  a  little  way 
within  the  eyes  ;  but  we  may  stand  quite 
safe,  close  behind  the  retina,  and  defy  the 
philosophers. 

Sibyl.  But  I  don't  care  so  much  about 
defying  the  philosophers,  if  only  one  could 
get  a  clear  idea  of  life,  or  soul,  for  one's  self. 

L.  Well,  Sibyl,  you  used  to  know  more 
about  it,  in  that  cave  of  yours,  than  any  of 
us.  I  was  just  going  to  ask  you  about  in- 
spiration, and  the  golden  bough,  and  the 
like  ;  only  I  remembered  I  was  not  to  ask 
anything.  But,  will  not  you,  at  least,  tell 
us  whether  the  ideas  of  Life,  as  the  power 
of  putting  things  together,  or  "making'' 
them  ;  and  of  Death,  as  the  power  of  push-^ 
ing  things  separate,  or  '' unmaking  "  them, 
may  not  be  very  simply  held  in  balance 
against  each  other  ? 

Sibyl.  No,  I  am  not  in  my  cave  to-night  ; 
and  cannot  tell  you  anything. 

L.   I  think  they  may.     Modern  Philosophy 


Zbc  Cri26tal  IRest*  213 

is  a  great  separator  ;  it  is  little  more  than 
the  expansion  of  Moliere's  great  sentence, 
"  II  s'ensuit  de  la,  que  tout  ce  qu'il  y  a  de 
T3eau  est  dans  les  dictionnaires ;  il  n'y  a  que 
les  mots  qui  sont  transposes."  But  when 
you  used  to  be  in  your  cave,  Sibyl,  and  to 
"be  inspired,  there  was  (and  there  remains 
•still  in  some  small  measure),  beyond  the 
merely  formative  and  sustaining  power, 
-another,  which  we  painters  call  *' passion" 
— I  don't  know  what  the  philosophers  call 
it ;  we  know  it  makes  people  red,  or  white  ; 
and  therefore  it  must  be  something,  itself; 
and  perhaps  it  is  the  most  truly  "  poetic"  or 
''making"  force  of  all,  creating  a  world  of 
its  own  out  of  a  glance,  or  a  sigh  :  and  the 
want  of  passion  is  perhaps  the  truest  death, 
or  "unmaking"  of  everything; — even  of 
stones.  By  the  way,  you  were  all  reading 
about  that  ascent  of  the  Aiguille  Verte,  the 
other  day  ? 

Sibyl.  Because  you  had  told  us  it  was  so 
difficult,  you  thought  it  could  not  be  as- 
cended. 

L.  Yes  ;  I  believed  the  Aiguille  Verte 
would  have  held  its  own.  But  do  you  rec- 
ollect what  one  of  the  climbers  exclaimed, 
when  he  first  felt  sure  of  reaching  the  sum- 
mit.? 

Sibyl.  Yes,  it  was,  ''Oh,  Aiguille  Verte, 
vous  etes  morte,  vous  etes  morte  !  " 

L.  That  was  true  instinct.  Real  philo- 
sophic joy.     Now  can  you  at  all  fancy  the 


214  ^be  :6tbiC6  of  tbe  ®u6t 

difference  between  that  feeling  of  triumph 
in  a  mountain's  death  ;  and  the  exultation 
of  your  beloved  poet,  in  its  life — 

•*  Quantus  Atbos,  aut  quantus  Eryx,  aut  ipse  coruscis. 
Quum  fremit  ilicibus  quantus,  gaudetque  nivali 
Vertice,  se  attollens  pater  Apenninus  ad  auras.'' 

Dora.  You  must  translate  for  us  mere 
housekeepers,  please — whatever  the  cave- 
keepers  may  know  about  it. 

Mary.   Will  Dry  den  do  ? 

L.  No.  Dryden  is  a  far  Vv^ay  worse  than 
nothing,  and  nobody  will  "do."  You  can't 
translate  it.  But  this  is  all  you  need  know, 
that  the  lines  are  full  of  a  passionate  sense 
of  the  Apennines'  fatherhood,  or  protecting- 
power  over  Italy  ;  and  of  sympathy  with 
their  joy  in  their  snowy  strength  in  heaven  ; 
and  with  the  same  joy,  shuddering  through 
all  the  leaves  of  their  forests. 

Mary.  Yes,  that  is  a  difference  indeed  ■ 
but  then,  you  know,  one  can't  help  feeling 
that  it  is  fanciful.  It  is  very  delightful  to 
imagine  the  mountains  to  be  alive;  but 
then, — are  they  alive.? 

L.  It  seems  to  me,  on  the  whole,  Mary, 
that  the  feelings  of  the  purest  and  most 
mightily  passioned  human  souls  are  likely 
to  be  the  truest.  Not,  indeed,  if  they  do 
not  desire  to  know  the  truth,  or  blind  them- 
selves to  it  that  they  may  please  themselves 
with  passion ;  for  then  they  are  no  longer 


i 


XTbe  Crystal  IReet  215 

pure  :  but  if,  continually  seeking  and  accept- 
ing the  truth  as  far  as  it  is  discernible,  they 
trust  their  Maker  for  the  integrity  of  the  in- 
stincts He  has  gifted  them  with,  and  rest  in 
the  sense  of  a  higher  truth  which  they  can- 
not demonstrate,  I  think  they  will  be  most 
in  the  right,  so. 

Dora  and  Jessie  {clapping  iheir  hands). 
Then  we  really  may  believe  that  the  mount- 
ains are  living? 

L.  You  may  at  least  earnestly  believe 
that  the  presence  of  the  spirit  which  culmi- 
nates in  your  own  life,  shows  itself  in  dawn- 
ing, wherever  the  dust  of  the  earth  begins 
to  assume  any  orderly  and  lovely  state. 
You  will  find  it  impossible  to  separate  this 
idea  of  graduated  manifestation  from  that  of 
the  vital  power.  Things  are  not  either 
wholly  alive,  or  wholly  dead.  They  are  less 
or  more  alive.  Take  the  nearest,  most  easily 
examined  instance — the  life  of  a  flower. 
Notice  what  a  different  degree  and  kind  of 
life  there  is  in  the  calyx  and  the  corolla. 
The  calyx  is  nothing  but  the  swaddling 
clothes  of  the  flower  ;  the  child-blossom  is 
bound  up  in  it,  hand  and  foot  ;  guarded  in 
it,  restrained  by  it,  till  the  time  of  birth. 
The  shell  is  hardly  more  subordinate  to  the 
germ  in  the  ^^^^  than  the  calyx  to  the  blos- 
som. It  bursts  at  last ;  but  it  never  lives 
as  the  corolla  does.  It  may  fall  at  the  mo- 
ment its  task  is  fulfilled,  as  in  the  poppy  ; 
or  whether  gradually,  as  in  the  buttercup  \ 


2i6  ^bc  iBtbicB  ot  tbc  Dust* 

or  persist  in  a  ligneous  apathy,  after  the 
flower  is  dead,  as  in  the  rose  ;  or  harmonize 
itself  so  as  to  share  in  the  aspect  of  the  real 
flower,  as  in  the  lily  ;  but  it  never  shares  in 
the  corolla's  bright  passion  of  life.  And  the 
gradations  which  thus  exist  between  the 
different  members  of  organic  creatures,  exist 
no  less  between  the  different  ranges  of  or- 
ganism. We  know  no  higher  or  more  en- 
ergetic life  than  our  own  ;  but  there  seems 
to  me  this  great  good  in  the  idea  of  grada- 
tion of  life — it  admits  the  idea  of  a  life  above 
us,  in  other  creatures,  as  much  nobler  than 
ours,  as  ours  is  nobler  than  that  of  the  dust. 

Mary.  I  am  glad  you  have  said  that  ;  for 
I  know  Violet  and  Lucilla  and  May  want 
to  ask  you  something ;  indeed,  we  all  do  ; 
only  you  frightened  Violet  so  about  the  ant- 
hill, that  she  can't  say  a  word  ;  and  •  May  is 
afraid  of  your  teasing  her  too  :  but  I  know 
they  are  wondering  why  you  are  always 
telling  them  about  heathen  gods  and  god- 
desses, as  if  you  half  believed  in  them  ; 
and  you  represent  them  as  good  ;  and  then 
we  see  there  is  really  a  kind  of  truth  in  the 
stories  about  them  ;  and  we  are  all  puzzled  : 
and,  in  this,  we  cannot  even  make  our  diffi- 
culty quite  clear  to  ourselves  ; — it  would  be 
such  a  long  confused  question,  if  we  could 
ask  you  all  we  should  like  to  know. 

L.  Nor  is  it  any  wonder,  Mary  ;  for  this 
is  indeed  the  longest,  and  the  most  wildly 
confused  question  that  reason  can  deal  with  ; 


^be  Cri20tal  tRcBU  217 

but  I  will  try  to  give  you,  quickly,  a  few 
clear  ideas  about  the  heathen  gods,  which 
you  may  follow  out  afterwards,  as  your 
knowledge  increases. 

Every  heathen  conception  of  deity,  in 
ivhich  you  are  likely  to  be  interested,  has 
three  distinct  characters  : — 

I.  It  has  a  physical  character.  It  repre- 
sents some  of  the  great  powers  or  objects 
of  nature — sun  or  moon,  or  heaven,  or  the 
winds,  or  the  sea.  And  the  fables  first  re- 
lated about  each  deity  represent,  figuratively, 
the  action  or  the  natural  power  which  it 
represents  ;  such  as  the  rising  and  setting  of 
the  sun,  the  tides  of  the  sea,  and  so  on. 

II.  It  has  an  ethical  character,  and  repre- 
sents, in  its  history,  the  moral  dealings  of 
God  with  man.  Thus  Apollo  is  first,  physi- 
cally, the  sun  contending  with  darkness  ; 
but  morally,  the  power  of  divine  life^  con- 
tending with  corruption.  Athena  is,  physi- 
cally, the  air  ;  morally,  the  breathing  of  the 
divine  spirit  of  wisdom.  Neptune  is,  physi- 
cally, the  sea ;  morally,  the  supreme  power 
of  agitating  passion  ;  and  so  on. 

HI.  It  has,  at  last,  a  personal  character  ; 
and  is  realized  in  the  minds  of  its  wor- 
shipers as  a  living  spirit,  with  whom  men 
may  speak  face  to  face,  as  a  man  speaks  to 
liis  friend. 

Now  it  is  impossible  to  define  exactly, 
liow  far,  at  any  period  of  a  national  religion, 
these  three  ideas  are  mingled  :  or  how  fax 


2i8  Cbc  JStbice  ot  tbc  Bust* 

one  prevails  over  the  other.  Each  inquirer 
usually  takes  up  one  of  these  ideas,  and 
pursues  it,  to  the  exclusion  of  the  others  ; 
no  impartial  effort  seems  to  have  been  made 
to  discern  the  real  state  of  the  heathen  im- 
agination in  its  successive  phases.  For  the 
question  is  not  at  all  what  a  mythological 
figure  meant  in  its  origin  ;  but  what  it  be- 
came in  each  subsequent  mental  develop- 
ment of  the  nation  inheriting  the  thought. 
Exactly  in  proportion  to  the  mental  and 
moral  insight  of  any  race,  its  mythological 
figures  mean  more  to  it,  and  become  more 
real.  An  early  cmd  savage  race  means 
nothing  more  (because  it  has  nothing  more 
to  mean)  by  its  Apollo,  than  the  sun  ;  while 
a  cultivated  Greek  means  every  operation 
of  divine  intellect  and  justice.  The  Neith, 
of  Egypt,  meant,  physically,  little  more 
than  the  blue  of  the  air ;  but  the  Greek,  in 
a  cb'mate  of  alternate  storm  and  calm,  repre- 
sented the  wild  fringes  of  the  storm-cloud 
by  the  serpents  of  her  cegis  ;  and  the  light- 
ning and  cold  of  the  highest  thunder-clouds^ 
by  the  Gorgon  on  her  shield  :  while  morally^ 
the  same  types  represented  to  him  the  mys- 
tery and  changeful  terror  of  knowledge,  as 
her  spear  and  helm  its  ruling  and  defensive 
power.  And  no  study  can  be  more  interest- 
ing, or  more  useful  to  you,  than  that  of  the 
different  meanings  which  have  been  created 
by  great  nations,  and  great  poets,  out  of 
mythological  figures  given  them,  at  first,  ia 


Zbc  Crystal  1Re6t  219 

utter  simplicity.  But  when  we  approach 
them  in  their  third,  or  personal,  character 
(and,  for  its  power  over  the  whole  national 
mind,  this  is  far  the  leading-  one),  we  are 
met  at  once  by  questions  which  may  well 
put  all  of  you  at  pause.  Were  they  idly 
imag-ined  to  be  real  beings  ?  and  did  they  sO' 
usurp  the  place  of  the  true  God  ?  Or  were- 
they  actually  real  beings, — evil  spirits, — 
leading  men  away  from  the  true  God  ?  Or 
is  it  conceivable  that  they  might  have  been 
real  beings, — good  spirits, — entrusted  with 
some  message  from  the  true  God  ?  These- 
were  the  questions  you  wanted  to  ask  ;  were 
they  not,  Lucilla.'^ 

LuciLLA.   Yes,  indeed. 

L.  Well,  Lucilla,  the  *  answer  will  much, 
depend  upon  the  clearness  of  your  faith  in 
the  personality  of  the  spirits  which  are  de- 
scribed in  the  book  of  your  own  religion  ; 
— their  personality,  observe,  as  distinguished 
from  merely  symbolical  visions.  For  in- 
stance, when  Jeremiah  has  the  vision  of  the 
seething  pot  with  its  mouth  to  the  north, 
you  know  that  this  which  he  sees  is  not  a 
real  thing  ;  but  merely  a  significant  dream. 
Also,  when  Zechariah  sees  the  speckled 
horses  among  the  myrtle-trees  in  the  bottom, 
you  still  may  suppose  the  vision  symbolical ; 
— you  do  not  think  of  them  as  real  spirits,. 
like  Pegasus,  seen  in  the  form  of  horses. 
But  when  you  are  told  of' the  four  riders  in 
the  Apocalypse,  a  distinct  sense  of  person- 


:22o  XTbe  lEtbice  ot  tbc  Dust. 

ality  begins  to  force  itself  upon  you.  And 
though  you  might,  in  a  duU  temper,  think 
that  (for  one  instance  of  all)  the  fourth  rider 
on  the  pale  horse  was  merely  a  symbol  of 
the  power  of  death, — in  your  stronger  and 
more  earnest  moods  you  will  rather  con- 
ceive of  him  as  a  real  and  living  angel. 
And  when  you  look  back  from  the  vision  of 
Ihe  Apocalypse  to  the  account  of  the  de- 
struction of  the  Egyptian  first-born,  and  of 
the  army  of  Sennacherib,  and  again  to 
David's  vision  at  the  threshing  floor  of 
Araunah,  the  idea  of  personality  in  this 
death-angel  becomes  entirely  defined,  just  as 
in  the  appearance  of  the  angels  to  Abraham, 
JManoah,  or  Mary. 

Now,  when  you  have  once  consented  to 
Ihis  idea  of  a  personal  spirit,  must  not  the 
question  instantly  follow  :  "Does  this  spirit 
exercise  its  functions  towards  one  race  of 
men  only,  or  towards  all  men  ?  Was  it  an 
angel  of  death  to  the  Jew  only,  or  to  the 
Gentile  also  ?  "  You  find  a  certain  Divine 
agency  made  visible  to  a  King  of  Israel,  as 
an  armed  angel,  executing  vengeance,  of 
which  one  special  purpose  was  to  lower  his 
k:ingly  pride.  You  find  another  (or  perhaps 
the  same)  agency,  made  visible  to  a  Chris- 
tian prophet  as  an  angel  standing  in  the  sun, 
calling  to  the  birds  that  fly  under  heaven  to 
come,  that  they  may  eat  the  flesh  of  kings. 
Is  there  anything  impious  in  the  thought 
that  the  same  agency  might  have  been  ex- 


^be  Crystal  meet  22 r 

pressed  to  a  Greek  king,  or  Greek  seer,  by 
similar  visions? — that  this  figure  standing 
in  the  sun,  and  armed  with  the  sword,  or 
the  bow  (whose  arrows  were  drunk  with 
blood),  and  exercising  especially  its  power 
in  the  humiliation  of  the  proud,  might,  at 
first,  have  been  called  only  ^*  Destroyer," 
and  afterwards,  as  the  light,  or  sun,  of  jus- 
tice, was  recognized  in  the  chastisement, 
called  also  "  Physician  "  or  ''Healer''?  If 
you  feel  hesitation  in  admitting  the  possi- 
bility of  such  a  manifestation,  I  believe  yoa 
will  find  it  is  caused,  partly  indeed  by  such, 
trivial  things  as  the  difference  to  your  ear 
between  Greek  and  English  terms  ;  but,  far 
more,  by  uncertainty  in  your  own  mind 
respecting  the  nature  and  truth  of  the  visions 
spoken  of  in  the  Bible.  Have  any  of  you 
intently  examined  the  nature  of  your  belief 
in  them  ?  You,  for  instance,  Lucilla,  who 
think  often,  and  seriously,  of  such  things  ? 

Lucilla.  No  ;  I  never  could  tell  what  to 
believe  about  them.  I  know  they  must  be 
true  in  some  way  or  other;  and  I  like  read- 
ing about  them. 

L.  Yes  ;  and  I  like  reading  about  them 
too,  Lucilla ;  as  I  like  reading  other  grand 
poetry.  But,  surely,  we  ought  both  to- 
do  more  than  like  it  ?  Will  God  be  satis- 
fied with  us,  think  you,  if  we  read  His  words, 
merely  for  the  sake  of  an  entirely  meaning- 
less poetical  sensation  ? 

Lucilla.   But  do  not  the  people  who  give- 


222  ilbe  JBtbice  ot  tbc  5)u6t. 

themselves  to  seek  out  the  meaning  of  these 
things,  often  get  very  strange,  and  extra  va- 
grant? 

L.  IMore  than  that,  Lucilla.  They  often 
go  mad.  That  abandonment  of  the  mind  to 
rehgious  theory,  or  contemplation,  is  the 
very  thing  I  have  been  pleading  with  you 
against.  I  never  said  you  should  set  your- 
self to  discover  the  meanings  :  but  you  * 
should  take  careful  pains  to  understand  them, 
so  far  as  they  are  clear ;  and  you  should 
always  accurately  ascertain  the  state  of  your 
mind  about  them.  I  want  you  never  to  read 
merely  for  the  pleasure  of  fancy  ;  still  less  as 
a  formal  religious  duty  (else  you  might  as 
Avell  take  to  repeating  Paters  at  once  ;  for  it 
is  surely  wiser  to  repeat  one  thing  we  under- 
stand, than  read  a  thousand  which  we  can- 
not). Either,  therefore,  acknowledge  the 
passage  to  be,  for  the  present,  unintelligible 
to  you  ;  or  else  determine  the  sense  in  which 
you  at  present  receive  them ;  or,  at  all 
events,  the  different  senses  between  which 
you  clearly  see  that  you  must  choose. 
Make  either  your  belief  or  your  difficulty 
definite  ;  but  do  not  go  on,  all  through  your 
life,  believing  nothing  intelligently,  and  yet 
supposing  that  your  having  read  the  words 
of  a  divine  book  must  give  you  the  right  to 
despise  every  religion  but  your  own.  I  as- 
sure you,  strange  as  it  may  seem,  our  scorn 
of  Greek  tradition  depends,  not  on  our  be- 
lief, but  our  disbelief,  of  our  own  traditions. 


XL\)c  Crystal  V.csU  223 

We  have,  as  yet,  no  sufficient  clue  to  the 
meaning  of  either  ;  but  you  will  always  find 
that,  in  proportion  to  the  earnestness  of  our 
own  faith,  its  tendency  to  accept  a  spiritual 
personality  increases  :  and  that  the  most 
vital  and  beautiful  Christian  temper  rests 
joyfully  in  its  conviction  of  the  multitud- 
inous ministry  of  living-  angels,  infinitely 
Taried  in  rank  and  pov/cr.  You  all  know 
■one  expression  of  the  purest  and  happiest 
form  of  such  faith,  as  it  exists  in  modern 
limes,  in  Richter  s  lovely  illustrations  of  the 
Lords  Prayer.  The  real  and  living  death- 
angel,  girt  as  a  pilgrim  for  journey,  and 
softly  crov/ned  with  fiowers,  beckons  at  the 
dying  mother's  door  ;  child  angels  sit  talking 
face  to  face  with  mortal  children,  among  the 
flowers ; — hold  them  by  their  little  coats, 
lest  they  fall  on  the  stairs  ;  whisper  dreams 
of  heaven  to  them,  leaning  over  their  pil- 
lows ;  carry  the  sound  of  the  church  bells 
for  them  far  through  the  air  ;  and  even  de- 
scending lower  in  service,  fill  little  cups 
with  honey,  to  hold  out  to  the  weary  bee. 
By  the  way,  Lily,  did  you  tell  the  other  chil- 
dren that  story  about  your  little  sister,  and 
Alice,  and  the  sea? 

Lily.  I  told  it  to  Alice,  and  to  Miss  Dora. 
I  don't  think  I  did  to  anybody  else.  I 
thought  it  wasn't  worth. 

L.  We  shall  think  it  worth  a  great  deal 
now,  Lily,  if  you  will  tell  it  us.  How  old 
is  Dotty,  again  ?    I  forget. 


22^  XLbc  Mtbice  ot  tbc  Dust 

Lily.  She  is  not  quite  three  ;  but  she  has 
such  odd  Httle  old  ways,  sometimes. 

L.  And  she  was  very  fond  of  AHce  ? 

Lily.  Yes ;  AHce  was  so  good  to  her 
always  ! 

L.   And  so  when   Alice  went  away  ? 

Lily.  Oh,  it  was  nothing,  you  know,  ta 
tell  about  ;  only  it  was  strange  at  the  time.. 

L.   Well  ;    but  I  want  you  to  tell  it. 

Lily.  The  morning  after  Alice  had  gone. 
Dotty  was  very  sad  and  restless  when  she 
got  up;  and  went  about,  looking  into  all  the 
corners,  as  if  she  could  find  Alice  in  them, 
and  at  last  she  came  to  mc,  and  said,  ''Is 
Alie  gone  over  the  great  sea  ? "  And  I  said, 
'^  Yes,  she  is  gone  over  the  great  deep  sea, 
but  she  will  come  back  again  some  day.'' 
Then  Dotty  looked  round  the  room;  and  I 
had  just  poured  some  water  out  into  the 
basin  ;  and  Dotty  ran  to  it,  and  got  up  on  a 
chair,  and  dashed  her  hands  through  the 
water,  again  and  again;  and  cried,  *' Ch, 
deep,  deep  sea  !  send  little  Alie  back  to  me.'^ 

L.  Isn't  that  pretty,  children  ?  There's  a 
dear  little  heathen  for  you  !  The  whole 
heart  of  Greek  mythology  is  in  that ;  the  idea 
of  a  personal  being  in  the  elemental  power  ; 
— of  its  being  moved  by  prayer  ; — and  of  its 
presence  everywhere,  making  the  broken 
diffusion  of  the  element  sacred.     ' 

Now,  remember,  the  measure  in  which  we 
may  permit  ourselves  to  think  of  this  trusted 
and  adored  personality,  in  Greek,  or  in  any 


Zbc  Crystal  "Rest.  225, 

other,  mythology,  as  conceivably  a  shadow 
of  truth,  will  depend  on  the  degree  in  which, 
we  hold  the  Greeks,  or  other  great  nations, 
equal,  or  inferior,  in  privilege  and  character, 
to  the  Jews,  or  to  ourselves.  If  we  believe- 
that  the  great  Father  would  use  the  imagina- 
tion of  the  Jew  as  an  instrument  by  which 
to  exalt  and  lead  him  ;  but  the  imagination  of 
the  Greek  only  to  degrade  and  mislead  him  : 
if  we  can  suppose  that  real  angels  were  sent: 
to  minister  to  the  Jews  and  to  punish  them  ; 
but  no  angels;  or  only  mockinj^  spectra  of 
angels,  or  even  devils  in  the  shapes  of  an- 
gels, to  lead  Lycurgus  and  Leonidas  from 
desolate  cradle  to  hopeless  grave  : — and  if* 
we  can  think  that  it  was  only  the  influence 
of  specters,  or  the  teaching  of  demons, 
which  issued  in  the  making  of  mothers  like* 
Cornelia,  and  of  sons  like  Cleobis  and  Bito, 
we  may,  of  course,  reject  the  heathen  My- 
thology in  our  privileged  scorn  ;  but,  at  least, 
we  are  bound  to  examine  strictly  by  what 
faults  of  our  own  it  has  come  to  pass,  that 
the  ministry  of  real  angels  among  ourselves- 
is  occasionally  so  ineffectual  as  to  end  in  the 
production  of  Cornelias  who  entrust  their 
child-jewels  to  Charlotte  Winsors  for  the  bet- 
ter keeping  of  them  ;  and  of  sons  like  that 
one  who,  the  other  day,  in  France,  beat  his 
mother  to  death  with  a  stick  ;  and  was 
brought  in  by  the  jury,  ''guilty,  with  ex- 
tenuating circumstances." 
May.  Was  that  really  possible. 


2  26  ^be  iStbiCQ  ot  tbe  Dust 

L.  Yes,  my  dear.  I  am  not  sure  that  I 
can  lay  my  hand  on  the  reference  to  it  (and 
I  should  not  have  said  "the  other  day,'*' — 
it  was  a  year  or  two  ago),  but  you  may  de- 
pend on  the  fact  ;  and  I  could  give  you 
many  like  it,  if  I  chose.  There  was  a 
murder  done  in  Russia,  very  lately,  on  a 
traveler.  The  murderess's  little  daughter 
was  in  the  way,  and  found  it  out,  somehow. 
Her  mother  killed  her,  too,  and  put  her  into 
the  oven.  There  is  a  peculiar  horror  about 
the  relations  between  parent  and  child, 
which  are  being  now  brought  about  by  our 
variously  degraded  forms  of  European  white 
slavery.  Here  ts  one  reference,  I  see,  in 
my  notes  on  that  story  of  Cleobis  and  Bito  ; 
though  I  suppose  I  marked  this  chiefly  for 
its  quaintness  and  the  beautifully  Christian 
names  of  the  sons  ;  but  it  is  a  good  instance 
of  the  power  of  the  King  of  the  Valley  of 
Diamonds  *  among  us. 

In  -'Galignani,''  of  July  21-22,  1862,  is 
reported  a  trial  of  a  farmer's  son  in  the  de- 
partment of  the  Yonne.  The  father,  two 
years  ago,  at  Malay  le  Grand,  gave  up  his 
property  to  his  two  sons,  on  condition  of 
being  maintained  by  them.  Simon  fulfilled 
his  agreement,  but  Pierre  would  not.  The 
tribunal  of  Sens  condemns  Pierre  to  pay 
eighty-four  francs  a  year  to  his  father. 
Pierre   replies,    ' '  he  would  rather  die  than 

*  Note  vi. 


V^hc  Cri59tal  IRcet  227 

pay  it/'  Actually,  returning  home,  he 
throws  himself  into  the  river,  and  the  body 
is  not  found  till  next  day. 

Mary.  But — but — I  can't  tell  what  you 
would  have  us  think.  Do  you  seriously 
mean  that  the  Greeks  were  better  than  we 
are  ;  and  that  their  gods  were  real  angels  ? 

L.  No,  my  dear.  I  mean  only  that  we 
Icnow,  in  reality,  less  than  nothing  of  the 
dealings  of  our  Maker  with  our  fellow-men  ; 
and  can  only  reason  or  conjecture  safely 
about  them,  when  we  have  sincerely  hum- 
hle  thoughts  of  ourselves  and  our  creeds. 

We  owe  to  the  Greeks  every  noble  dis- 
cipline in  literature,  every  radical  principle  of 
art  ;  and  every  form  of  convenient  beauty 
in  our  household  furniture  and  daily  occupa- 
tions of  life.  We  are  unable,  ourselves,  to 
make  rational  use  of  half  that  we  have  re- 
ceived from  them  :  and,  of  our  own,  we 
have  nothing  but  discoveries  in  science,  and 
fine  mechanical  adaptations  of  the  discov- 
ered physical  powers.  On  the  other  hand, 
the  vice  existing  among  certain  classes, 
both  of  the  rich  and  poor,  in  London,  Paris, 
and  Vienna,  could  have  been  conceived  by  a 
Spartan  or  Roman  of  the  heroic  ages  only 
as  possible  in  a  Tartarus,  where  fiends  were 
-employed  to  teach,  but  not  to  punish,  crime. 
It  little  becomes  us  to  speak  contemptuously 
of  the  religion  of  races  to  whom  we  stand  in 
■such  relations  ;  nor  do  I  think  any  man  of 
modesty  or  thoughtfulness  will  ever  speak 


2  28  Zbc  JEtbice  ot  tbc  Dust. 

so  of  any  religion,  in  which  God  has  allowed 
one  good  man  to  die,  trusting. 

The  more  readily  we  admit  the  possibility 
of  our  own  cherished  convictions  being 
mixed  with  error,  the  more  vital  and  helpful 
whatever  is  right  in  them  will  become  :  and 
no  error  is  so  conclusively  fatal  as  the  idea 
that  God  will  not  allow  us  to  err,  though 
He  has  allowed  all  other  men  to  do  so. 
There  may  be  doubt  of  the  meaning  of  other 
visions,  but  there  is  none  respecting  that  of 
the  dream  of  St.  Peter ;  and  you  may  trust 
the  Rock  of  the  Church's  Foundation  for  tvuor 
interpreting,  when  he  learned  from  it  that, 
''in  every  nation,  he  that  feareth  God  and 
worketh  righteousness,  is  accepted  with 
Him."  See  that  you  understand  what  that 
righteousness  means  ;  and  set  hand  to  it 
stoutly  :  you  will  always  measure  your  neigh- 
bors' creed  kindly,  in  proportion  to  the  sub- 
stantial fruits  of  your  own.  Do  not  think 
you  will  ever  get  harm  by  striving  to  enter 
into  the  faith  of  others,  and  to  sympathize, 
in  imagination,  with  the  guiding  principles, 
of  their  lives.  So  only  can  you  justly  love 
them,  or  pity  them,  or  praise.  By  the  gra- 
cious efforts  you  will  double,  treble — nay,  in- 
definitely multiply,  at  once  the  pleasure,  the- 
reverence,  and  the  intelligence  with  which 
you  read  :  and,  believe  me,  it  is  wiser  and 
holier,  by  the  fire  of  your  own  faith,  to  kindle 
the  ashes  of  expired  religions,  than  to  let 
your  soul  shiver  and  stumble  among  their 


Xlbc  Cri26tal  1Rc6t  229^ 

graves,  through  the  gathering  darkness,  and 
communicable  cold. 

Mary  {ay/er  some  pause).  We  shall  all 
like  reading  Greek  history  so  much  better 
after  this  !  but  it  has  put  everything  else  out 
of  our  heads  that  we  wanted  to  ask. 

L.  I  can  tell  you  one  of  the  things  ;  and 
I  might  take  credit  for  generosity  in  telling 
you  :  but  I  have  a  personal  reason — Lucilla's 
verse  about  the  creation. 

Dora.  Oh,  yes — yes;  and  its  ''pain  to- 
gether, until  now." 

L.  I  call  you  back  to  that,  because  I  must 
warn  you  against  an  old  error  of  my  own. 
Somewhere  in  the  fourth  volume  of  "  Modern 
Painters,"  I  said  that  the  earth  seemed  to 
have  passed  through  its  highest  state  :  and 
that,  after  ascending  by  a  series  of  phases, 
culminating  in  its  habitation  by  man,  it 
seems  to  be  now  gradually  becoming  less 
fit  for  that  habitation. 

Mary.   Yes,  I  remember. 

L.  I  wrote  those  passages  under  a  very 
bitter  impression  of  the  gradual  perishing  of 
beauty  from  the  loveliest  scenes  which  I 
knew  in  the  physical  world ; — not  in  any 
doubtful  way,  such  as  I  might  have  attrib- 
uted to  loss  of  sensation  in  myself — but  by 
violent  and  definite  physical  action  ;  such 
as  the  filling  up  of  the  Lac  de  Chede  by 
landslips  from  the  Rochers  des  Fiz ; — the 
narrowing  of  the  Lake  Lucerne  by  the  gain- 
ing delta  of  the  stream  of  the  Muotta-Thal, 


230  ^be  J6tbtC6  ot  tbe  1S>\xbU 

which,  in  the  course  of  years,  will  cut  the 
lake  into  two,  as  that  of  Brientz  has  been 
divided  from  that  of  Thun  ; — the  steady- 
diminishing  of  the  glaciers  north  of  the  Alps, 
and  still  more,  of  the  sheets  of  snow  on  their 
southern  slopes,  which  supply  the  refreshing 
streams  of  Lombardy  : — the  equally  steady 
increase  of  deadly  maremma  round  Pisa  and 
Venice  ;  and  other  such  phenomena,  quite 
measurably  traceable  within  the  limits  even 
of  short  life,  and  unaccompanied,  as  it 
seemed,  by  redeeming  or  compensatory 
agencies.  I  am  still  under  the  same  impres- 
sion respecting  the  existing  phenomena ; 
but  I  feel  more  strongly,  every  day,  that  no 
evidence  to  be  collected  within  historical 
periods  can  be  accepted  as  any  clew  to  the 
great  tendencies  of  geological  change  ;  but 
that  the  great  laws  which  never  fail,  and  to 
which  all  change  is  subordinate,  appear 
such  as  to  accomplish  a  gradual  advance  to 
lovelier  order,  and  more  calmly,  yet  more 
deeply,  animated  Rest.  Nor  has  this  con- 
viction ever  fastened  itself  upon  me  more 
distinctly,  than  during  my  endeavor  to  trace 
the  laws  which  govern  the  lowly  framework 
of  the  dust.  For,  through  all  the  phases  of 
its  transition  and  dissolution,  there  seems  ta 
be  a  continual  effort  to  raise  itself  into  a 
higher  state  ;  and  a  measured  gain,  through 
the  fierce  revulsion  and  slow  renewal  of  the 
earth's  frame,  in  beauty,  and  order,  and  per- 
manence.     The  soft  white  sediments  of  the 


^be  Crystal  IRest  231 

sea  draw  themselves,  in  process  of  time, 
into  smooth  knots  of  sphered  symmetry  ; 
burdened  and  strained  under  increase  of 
pressure,  they  pass  into  a  nascent  marble  ; 
scorched  by  fervent  heat,  they  brighten  and 
blanch  into  the  snowy  rock  of  Paros  and 
Carrara.  The  dark  drift  of  the  inlapd  river 
or  stagnant  slime  of  inland  pool  and  lake, 
divides,  or  resolves  itself  as  it  dries,  into 
layers  of  its  several  elements  ;  slowly  puri- 
fying each  by  the  patient  withdrawal  of 
it  from  the  anarchy  of  the  mass  in  which  it 
was  mingled.  Contracted  by  increasing- 
drought,  till  it  must  shatter  into  fragments, 
it  infuses  continually  a  finer  ichor  into  the 
opening  veins,  and  finds  in  its  weakness  the- 
first  rudiments  of  a  perfect  strength.  Rent 
at  last,  rock  from  rock,  nay,  atom  from 
atom,  and  tormented  in  lambent  fire,  it 
knits,  through  the  fusion,  the  fibers  of  a  per- 
ennial  endurance;  and,  during  countless 
subsequent  centuries,  declining,  or,  rather 
let  me  say,  rising,  to  repose,  finishes  the 
infallible  luster  of  its  crystalline  beauty, 
under  harmonies  of  law  which  are  wholly 
beneficent,  because  wholly  inexorable. 

i^The  children  seem  pleased,  but  more  in- 
clined to  think  over  these  matters  than 
to  talk.) 
L.    {after  giving  them  a  little  time),    Mary,  I 
seldom    ask   you  to    read   anything  out   of 
books  of  mine  ;  but  there  is  a  passage  about 
the  Law  of  Help,  which  I  want  you  to  read 


232  Zbc  Btbics  ot  tbe  B\xbU 

io  the  children  now,  because  it  is  of  no 
use  merely  to  put  it  in  other  words  for 
them.  You  know  the  place  I  mean,  do  not 
you  ? 

IVIary.  Yes  {presently  finding  it) ;  where 
shall  I  begin'? 

L.  Here  ;  but  the  elder  ones  had  better 
look  afterwards  at  the  piece  which  comes 
just  before  this. 

Mary  {reads)  : 

"  A  pure  or  holy  state  of  anything  is  that  in  which 
all  its  parts  are  helpful  or  consistent.  The  highest  and 
iirst  law  of  the  universe,  and  the  other  name  of  life,  is 
therefore  '  help.'  The  other  name  of  death  is  *  separa- 
tion.' Government  and  co-operation  are  in  all  things, 
and  eternally,  the  laws  of  life.  Anarchy  and  competi- 
tion, eternally,  and  in  all  things,  the  laws  of  death. 

*'  Perhaps  the  best,  though  the  most  familiar,  ex- 
ample we  could  take  of  the  nature  and  power  of  con- 
sistence, will  be  that  of  the  possible  changes  in  the 
dust  we  tread  on. 

"  Exclusive  of  animal  decay,  we  can  hardly  arrive  at 
a  more  absolute  type  of  impurity,  than  the  mud  or 
slime  of  a  damp,  over-trodden  path,  in  the  outskirts  of 
a  manufacturing  town.  I  do  not  say  mud  of  the  road, 
because  that  is  mixed  with  animal  refuse ;  but  take 
merely  an  ounce  or  two  of  the  blackest  slime  of  a 
beaten  footpath,  on  a  rainy  day,  near  a  manufacturing 
town.  That  slime  we  shall  find  in  most  cases  composed 
of  clay  (or  brickdust,  which  is  burnt  clay),  mixed  with 
soot,  a  little  sand  and  water.  All  these  elements  are  at 
helpless  war  with  each  other,  and  destroy  reciprocally 
each  other's  nature  and  power  :  competing  and  fight- 
ing for  place  at  every  tread  of  your  foot ;  sand  squeez- 
ing out  clay,  and  clay  squeezing  out  water,  and  soot 
meddling  everywhere,  and  defiling  the  whole.  Let  us 
suppose  that  this  ounce  of  mud  is  left  in  perfect  rest, 
and  that  its  elements  gather  together,  like  to  like,  so 


XTbc  Crystal  IRcst*  233 

that  their  atoms  may  get  into  the  closest  relations  pos- 
sible. 

"  Let  the  clay  begin.  Ridding  itself  of  all  foreign 
substance,  it  gradually  becomes  a  white  earth,  already 
very  beautiful,  and  fit,  with  help  of  congealing  fire,  to 
be  made  into  finest  porcelahi,  and  painted  on,  and  be 
ikept  in  kings'  palaces.  But  such  artificial  consistence 
is  not  its  best.  Leave  it  still  quiet,*  to  follow  its  own 
instinct  of  unity,  and  it  becomes,  not  only  white,  but 
<:lear  ;  not  only  clear,  but  hard ;  nor  only  clear  and 
hard,  but  so  set  that  it  can  deal  with  light  in  a  wonder-; 
ful  way,  and  gather  out  of  it  the  loveliest  blue  rays 
only,  refusing  the  rest.     We  call  it  then  a  sapphire. 

"  Such  being  the  consummation  of  the  clay,  we  give 
similar  permission  of  quiet  to  the  sand.  It  also  be- 
comes, first,  a  white  earth  ;  then  proceeds  to  grow  clear 
and  hard,  and  at  last  arranges  itself  in  mysterious,  in- 
^nitely  fine  parallel  lines,  which  have  the  power  of  re- 
flecting, not  merely  the  blue  rays,  but  the  blue,  green, 
purple,  and  red  rays,  in  the  greatest  beauty  in  which 
they  can  be  seen  through  any  hard  material  whatso- 
•ever.     We  call  it  then  an  opal. 

"  In  next  order  the  soot  sets  to  work.  It  cannot 
jnake  itself  white  at  first ;  but,  instead  of  being  dis- 
couraged, tries  harder  and  harder;  and  comes  out 
clear  at  last ;  and  the  hardest  thing  in  the  world ;  and 
for  the  blackness  that  it  had,  obtains  in  exchange  the 
power  of  reflecting  all  the  rays  of  the  sun  at  once,  in 
the  vividest  blaze  that  any  solid  thing  can  shoot.  We 
call  it  then  a  diamond. 

"  Last  of  all,  the  water  purifies,  or  unites  itself ; 
contented  enough  if  it  only  reach  the  form  of  a  dew- 
'drop  :  but  if  we  insist  on  its  proceeding  to  a  more  per- 
fect consistence,  it  crystallizes  into  the  shape  of  a  star. 
And,  for  the  ounce  of  slime  which  we  had  by  political 
economy  of  competition,  we  have,  by  political  economy 
•of  co-operation,  a  sapphire,  an  opal,  and  a  diamond, 
^et  in  the  midst  of  a  star  of  snow." 

L.  I  have  asked  you  to  hear  that,  children, 
(because,  from  all  that  we  have  seen  in  the 


234  ^t)e  :etbics  of  tbe  Dust* 

work  and  play  of  these  past  days,  I  would 
have  you  g-ain  at  least  one  grave  and  endur- 
ing thought.  The  seeming  trouble, — the 
unquestionable  degradation, — of  the  ele- 
ments of  the  physical  earth,  must  passively 
wait  the  appointed  time  of  their  repose,  or 
their  restoration.  It  can  only  be  brought 
about  for  them  by  the  agency  of  external 
law.  But  if,  indeed,  there  be  a  nobler  life 
in  us  than  in  these  strangely  moving  atoms  ; 
— if,  indeed,  there  is  an  eternal  difference 
between  the  fire  which  inhabits  them,  and 
that  which  animates  us,  — it  must  be  shown, 
by  each  of  us  in  his  appointed  place,  not 
merely  in  the  patience,  but  in  the  activity 
of  our  hope  ;  not  merely  by  our  desire,  but 
our  labor,  for  the  time  when  the  Dust  of  the 
generations  of  men  shall  be  confirmed  for 
foundations  of  the  gates  of  the  city  of  God. 
The  human  clay,  now  trampled  and  de- 
spised, will  not  be, — cannot  be, — knit  into 
strength  and  light  by  accident  or  ordinances 
of  unassisted .  fate.  By  human  cruelty  and 
iniquity  it  has  been  afflicted ; — by  human 
mercy  and  justice  it  must  be  raised  :  and,  in 
all  fear  or  questioning  of  what  is  or  is  not, 
the  real  message  of  creation,  or  of  revela- 
tion, you  may  assuredly  find  perfect  peace, 
if  you  are  resolved  to  do  that  which  your 
Lord  has  plainly  required, — and  content 
that  He  should  indeed  require  no  more  of 
you, — than  to  do  Justice,  to  love  Mercy» 
and  to  walk  humbly  with  Him. 


NOTES. 


NOTES. 


Note  I. 

Page  32. 

"  That  third  pyramid  of  hers  ^* 

Throughout  the  dialogues,  it  must  be  observed 
that  "  Sibyl "  is  addressed  (when  in  play)  as  having: 
once  been  the  Cumaean  Sibyl ;  and  "  Egypt  "  as  having, 
been  Queen  Nitocris, — the  Cinderella  and  "  the  greatest 
heroine  and  beauty ' '  of  Egyptian  story.  The  Egyptians 
called  her  "  Neith  the  Victorious"  (Nitocris),  and  the 
Greeks  "  Face  of  the  Rose"  (Rhodope).  Chaucer's 
beautiful  conception  of  Cleopatra  in  the  "  Legend  of 
Good  Women,"  is  much  more  founded  on  the  tradi- 
tions of  her  than  on  those  of  Cleopatra ;  and,  especially 
in  its  close,  modified  by  Herodotus' s  terrible  story  of 
the  death  of  Nitocris,  which,  however,  is  mythologically 
nothing  more  than  a  part  of  the  deep  monotonous 
ancient  dirge  for  the  fulfillment  of  the  earthly  destiny 
of  Beauty  :  "  She  cast  herself  into  a  chamber  full  of 
ashes." 

I  believe  this  Queen  is  now  sufficiently  ascertained 
to  have  either  built,  or  increased  to  double  its  former 
size,  the  third  pyramid  of  Gizeh  :  and  the  passage 
following  in  the  text  refers  to  an  imaginary  endeavor, 
by  the  Old  Lecturer  and  the  children  together,  to  make 
out  the  description  of  that  pyramid  in  the  167th  page  of 
the  second  volume  of  Bunsen's  "  Egypt's  Place  in 
Universal  History" — ideal  endeavor, — which    ideally 

237 


23S  Botes* 

terminates  as  the  Old  Lecturer's  real  endeavors  to  the 
same  end  always  have  termmated.  There  are,  how- 
ever, valuable  notes  respecting  Nitocris  at  page  210  of 
the  same  volume :  but  the  "  Early  Egyptian  History 
for  the  Young,"  by  the  author  of  "  Sidney  Gray  "  con- 
tains, in  a  pleasant  form,  as  much  information  as  young 
readers  will  usually  need. 

Note  II. 

Page  33. 

"  Pyramid  of  AsychisP 

This  pyramid,  in  mythology,  divides  with  the  Tower 
of  Babel  the  shame,  or  vainglory,  of  being  presumptu- 
ously, and  first  among  great  edifices,  built  with  "  brick 
for  stone."  This  was  the  inscription  on  it,  according 
to  Herodotus  : 

"  Despise  me  not,  in  comparing  me  with  the 
pyramids  of  stone;  for  I  have  the  pre-eminence 
over  them,  as  far  as  Jupiter  has  pre-eminence  over 
the  gods.  For,  striking  with  staves  into  the  pool, 
men  gathered  the  clay  which  fastened  itself  to  the 
staff,  and  kneaded  bricks  out   of  it,  and  so   made 


The  word  I  have  translated  "  kneaded  "  is  literally 
**  drew  ; "  in  the  sense  of  drawing,  for  which  the  Latins 
used  "  duco  " ;  and  thus  gave  us  our  "  ductile  "  in  speak- 
ing of  dead  clay,  and  Duke,  Doge,  or  leader,  in  speak- 
ing of  living  clay.  As  the  asserted  pre-eminence  of  the 
edifice  is  made,  in  this  inscription,  to  rest  merely  on 
the  quantity  of  labor  consumed  in  it,  this  pyramid  is 
considered,  in  the  text,  as  the  type,  at  once,  of  the  base 
building,  and  of  the  lost  labor,  of  future  ages,  so  far 
at  least  as  the  spirits  of  measured  and  mechanical 
effort  deal  with  it ;  but  Neith,  exercising  her  power 
upon  it,  makes  it  a  type  of  the  work  of  wise  and  in- 
.spired  builders. 


tiotce.  239 

Note  III. 

Page  34. 

"  T/ie  Greater  Pthahy 

It  is  impossible,  as  yet,  to  define  with  distinctness 
the  personal  agencies  of  the  Egyptian  deities.  They 
are  continually  associated  in  function,  or  hold  derivative 
powers,  or  are  related  to  each  other  in  mysterious 
triads ;  uniting  always  symbolism  of  physical  phenomena 
with  real  spiritual  power.  I  have  endeavored  partly 
to  explain  this  in  the  text  of  the  tenth  Lecture  ;  here, 
it  is  only  necessary  for  the  reader  to  know  that  the 
Greater  Pthah  more  or  le^s  represents  the  formative 
power  of  order  and  measurement :  he  ahvays  stands 
•on  a  four-square  pedestal,  "  the  Egyptian  cubit,  meta- 
phorically used  as  the  hieroglyphic  for  truth  ; "  his  limbs 
are  bound  together,  to  signify  fixed  stability,  as  of  a 
pillar;  he  has  a  measuring-rod  in  his  hand;  and  at 
Philcxi,  is  represented  as  holding  an  &ZZ  ^^'^  ^  potter's 
"vvheel ;  but  I  do  not  know  if  this  symbol  occurs  in 
older  sculptures.  Ilis  usual  title  is  the  "  Eord  of 
Truth."  Others,  very  beautiful :  "  King  of  the  Two 
AVorlds,  of  Gracious  Countenance,"  "Superintendent 
of  the  Great  Abode,"  etc.,  are  given  by  Mr.  Birch  in 
Arundale's  "  Gallery  of  Antiquities,"  v/hich  I  suppose 
is  the  book  of  best  authority  easily  accessible.  For 
the  full  titles  and  utterance  of  the  gods,  Rosellini  is 
as  yet  the  only — and,  I  believe,  still  a  very  questionable 
— authority;  Arundale's  little  book,  excellent  in  the 
text,  has  this  great  defect,  that  its  drawings  give  the 
statues  invariably  a  ludicrous  or  ignoble  character. 
Readers  who  have  not  access  to  the  originals  must  be 
warned  against  this  frequent  fault  in  modern  illustra- 
tion (especially  existing  also  in  some  of  the  painted 
casts  of  Gothic  and  Norman  work  at  the  Crystal 
Palace).  It  is  not  owing  to  any  willful  want  of  veracity  r 
the  plates  in  Arundale's  book  are  laboriously  faithful : 
but  the  expressions  of  both  face  and  body  in  a  figure 


240  lfi0tC6» 

depend  merely  on  emphasis  of  touch  ;  and,  in  barbaric 
art,  most  draughtsmen  emphasize  what  they  plainljr 
see — the  barbarism  ;  and  miss  conditions  of  nobleness,, 
which  they  must  approach  the  monument  in  a  different 
temper  before  they  will  discover  and  draw  with  great 
subtlety  before  they  can  express. 

The  character  of  the  Lower  Pthah,  or  perhaps  I 
ought  rather  to  say,  of  Pthah  in  his  lower  ofiice,  is  suf- 
ficiently explained  in  the  text  of  the  third  Lecture  ; 
only  the  reader  must  be  warned  that  the  Egyptian 
symbolism  of  him  by  the  beetle  was  not  a  scornful 
one  ;  it  expressed  only  the  idea  of  his  presence  in  the- 
first  elements  of  life.  But  it  may  not  unjustly  be  used, 
in  another  sense,  by  us,  who  have  seen  his  power  m 
new  development ;  and,  even  as  it  was,  I  cannot  con- 
ceive that  the  Egyptians  should  have  regarded  their 
beetle-headed  image  of  him  (Champollion,  "  Pantheon," 
pi.  12),  without  some  occult  scorn.  It  is  the  most  pain- 
ful of  all  their  types  of  any  beneficent  power;  and  even 
among  those  of  evil  influences,  none  can  be  compared 
with  it,  except  its  opposite,  the  tortoise-headed  demoa 
of  indolence. 

Pasht  (p.  33,  line  5)  is  connected  with  the  Greek 
Artemis,  especially  in  her  offices  of  judgment  and 
vengeance.  She  is  usually  lioness-headed  ;  sometimes 
cat-headed ;  her  attribute  seeming  often  trivial  or  ludi- 
crous unless  their  full  meaning  is  known  ;  but  the  in- 
quiry is  much  too  wide  to  be  followed  here.  The  cat 
was  sacred  to  her;  or  rather  to  the  sun,  and  secondarily 
to  her.  She  is  alluded  to  in  the  text  because  she  is  al- 
ways the  companion  of  Pthah  (called  "  the  beloved  of 
Pthah,"  it  may  be  as  Judgment,  demanded  and  longed 
for  by  Truth)  ;  and  it  may  be  well  for  young  readers  to- 
have  this  fixed  in  their  minds,  even  by  chance  associa- 
tion. There  are  more  statues  of  Pasht  in  the  British 
Museum  than  of  any  other  Egyptian  deity;  several  of 
them  fine  in  workmanship;  nearly  all  in  dark  stone, 
which  may  be,  presumably,  to  connect  her,  as  the  moon, 
with  the  night  ;  and  in  her  office  of  avenger,  with 
grief. 

Thoth  (p.  37,  line  5)  is  the  Recording  Angel  of 


Botes^  241 

Judgment ;  and  the  Greek  Hermes — Phre  (line  9),  is 
the  Sun. 

Neith  is  the  Egyptian  spirit  of  divine  wisdom ;  and 
the  Athena  of  the  Greeks.  No  sufficient  statement  of 
her  many  attributes,  still  less  of  their  meanings,  can  be 
shortly  given ;  but  this  should  be  noted  respecting  the 
veiling  of  the  Egyptian  image  of  her  by  vulture  wings 
— that  as  she  is,  physically,  the  goddess  of  the  air,  this 
bird,  the  most  powerful  creature  of  the  air  known  to 
the  Egyptians,  naturally  became  her  symbol.  It  had 
other  significations  ;  but  certainly  this,  when  in  connec- 
tion with  Neith.  As  representing  her,  it  was  the  most 
important  sign,  next  to  the  winged  sphere,  in  Egyptian 
sculpture ;  and,  just  as  in  Homer,  Athena  herself  guides 
her  heroes  into  battle,  this  symbol  of  wisdom,  giving^ 
victory,  floats  over  the  heads  of  the  Egyptian  Kings. 
The  Greeks,  representing  the  goddess  herself  in  human 
form,  yet  would  not  lose  the  power  of  the  Egyptian 
symbol,  and  changed  it  into  an  angel  of  victory.  First 
seen  in  loveliness  on  the  early  coins  of  Syracuse  and. 
Leontium,  it  gradually  became  the  received  sign  of  all 
conquest,  and  the  so-called  "  Victory  "  of  later  times; 
which,  little  by  Httle,  loses  its  truth,  and  is  accepted  by 
the  moderns  only  as  a  personification  of  victory  itself, 
— not  as  an  actual  picture  of  the  living  Angel  who  led 
to  victory.  There  is  a  wide  difference  between  these 
two  conceptions, — all  the  difference  between  insincere 
poetry,  and  sincere  religion.  This  I  have  also  en- 
deavored farther  to  illustrate  in  the  tenthLecture ;  there 
is,  however,  one  part  of  Athena's  character  which  it. 
would  have  been  irrelevant  to  dwell  upon  there ;  yet 
which  I  must  not  wholly  leave  unnoticed. 

As  the  goddess  of  the  air,  she  physically  represents- 
both  its  beneficent  calm,  and  necessary  tempest :  other 
storm-deities  (as  Chrysaor  and  ^olus)  being  invested 
with  a  subordinate  and  more  or  less  malignant  function,, 
which  is  exclusively  their  own,  and  is  related  to  that  of 
Athena  as  the  power  of  Mars  is  related  to  hers  in  war. 
So  also  Virgil  makes  her  able  to  wield  the  lightning 
herself,  while  Juno  cannot,  but  must  pray  for  the  inter- 
vention of  ^olus.     She  has  precisely  the  correspondent 

16 


242  Botes* 

moral  authority  over  calmness  of  mind,  and  just  anger. 
She  soothes  Achilles,  as  she  incites  Tydides ;  her  phys- 
ical power  over  the  air  being  always  hinted  correlatively. 
She  grasps  Achilles  by  his  hair — as  the  wind  would  lift 
it — softly, 

**  It  fanned  his  cheek,  it  raised  his  hair, 
Like  a  meadow  gale  in  spring." 

She  does  not  merely  turn  the  lance  of  Mars  from  Dio- 
med  ;  but  seizes  it  in  both  her  hands,  and  casts  it  aside, 
with  a  sense  of  making  it  vain,  like  chaff  in  the  wind; 
— to  the  shout  of  Achilles,  she  adds  her  own  voice  of 
storm  in  heaven — but  in  all  cases  the  moral  power  is 
still  the  principal  one — most  beautifully  in  that  seizing 
of  Achilles  by  the  hair,  which  was  the  talisman  of  his 
life  (because  he  had  vowed  it  to  the  Sperchius  if  he  re- 
turned in  safety),  and  which,  in  giving  at  Patroclus' 
tomb,  he,  knowingly,  yields  up  the  hope  of  return  to  his 
•country,  and  signifies  that  he  will  die  with  his  friend. 
Achilles  and  Tydides  are,  above  all  other  heroes,  aided 
by  her  in  war,  because  their  prevailing  characters  are 
the  desire  of  justice,  united  in  both,  with  deep  affec- 
tions ;  and,  in  Achilles,  with  a  passionate  tenderness, 
•which  is  the  real  root  of  his  passionate  anger.  Ulysses 
IS  her  favorite  chiefly  in  her  ofi&ce  as  the  goddess  of 
■conduct  and  design. 


Note  IV. 

Page  82. 

"  Geometrical  limitations!''' 

It  is  difficult,  without  a  tedious  accuracy,  or  without 
■full  illustration,  to  express  the  complete  relations  of 
crystallincrstructure,^  which  dispose  minerals  to  take,  at 
different  times,  fibrous,  massive,  or  foliated  forms ;  and 
I  am  afraid  this  chapter  will  be  generally  skipped  by 
the  reader :  yet  the  arrangement  itself  will  be  found 
iisef  ul,  if  kept  broadly  in  mind ;  and  the  transitions  of 


tiOtCB.  243. 

Btate  are  of  the  highest  interest,  if  the  subject  is  entered 
upon  with  any  earnestness.  It  would  have  been  vain 
to  add  to  the  scheme  of  this  little  volume  any  account 
of  the  geometrical  forms  of  crystals  :  an  available  one^ 
though  still  far  too  difficult  and  too  copious,  has  been 
arranged  by  the  Rev.  Mr.  Mitchell,  for  Orr's  "  Circle  of 
the  Sciences";  and,  I  believe,  the  "nets"  of  crystals, 
which  are  therein  given  to  be  cut  out  with  scissors  and 
put  prettily  together,  will  be  found  more  conquerable 
by  young  ladies  than  by  other  students.  They  should 
also,  when  an  opportunity  occurs,  be  shown,  at  any^ 
public  library,  the  diagram  of  the  crystallization  of 
quartz  referred  to  poles,  at  p.  8  of  Cloizaux's  "  Manuel 
de  Mineralogie  "  ;  that  they  may  know  what  work  is  ; 
and  what  the  subject  is. 

With  a  view  to  more  careful  examination  of  the  nas- 
cent states  of  silica,  1  have  made  no  allusion  in  this  vol- 
ume to  the  influence  of  mere  segregation,  as  connected 
with  the  crystalline  power.  It  has  only  been  recently, 
during  the  study  of  the  breccias  alluded  to  in  page  186 
that  I  have  fully  seen  the  extent  to  which  this  singular 
force  often  modifies  rocks  in  which  at  first  its  influence 
might  hardly  have  been  suspected  ;  many  apparent 
conglomerates  being  in  reality  formed  chiefly  by  segre- 
gation, combined  with  mysterious  brokenly-zoned  struct- 
ures, like  those  of  some  malachites.  I  hope  some  da^ 
to  know  more  of  these  and  several  other  mineral  pheno- 
mena (especially  of  those  connected  with  the  relative 
sizes  of  crystals),  which  otherwise  I  should  have  en.- 
deavored  to  describe  in  this  volume. 


Note  V. 

Page  168. 

''St.  Barbara:'' 

I  WOULD  have  given  the  legends  of  St.  Barbara,  and 
St.  Thomas,  if  I  had  thought  it  always  well  for  young 
readers  to  have  everything  at  once  told  them   which 


244  *O^OtC0» 

they  may  wish  to  know.  They  will  remember  the 
stories  better  after  taking  some  trouble  to  find  them  ; 
and  the  text  is  intelligible  enough  as  it  stands.  The 
idea  of  St.  Barbara,  as  there  given,  is  founded  partly 
on  her  legend  in  Peter  de  Natalibus,  partly  on  the 
beautiful  photograph  of  Van  Eyck's  picture  of  her  at 
Antwerp  :  which  was  some  time  since  published  at  Lille. 

Note  VI. 

Page  226. 

*''  King  of  the  Valley  of  Diamonds ^^ 

Isabel  interrupted  the  Lecturer  here,  and  was  briefly 
bid  to  hold  her  tongue  ;  which  gave  rise  to  some  talk, 
apart,  afterwards,  between  L.  and  Sibyl,  of  which  a 
word  or  two  may  be  perhaps  advisably  set  down. 

Sibyl.  We  shall  spoil  Isabel,  certainly,  if  we  don't 
mind  ;  I  was  glad  you  stopped  her,  and  yet  sorry;  for 
she  wanted  so  much  to  ask  about  the  Valley  of  Dia- 
monds again,  and  she  has  worked  so  hard  at  it,  and 
made  it  nearly  all  out  by  herself.  She  recollected 
Elisha's  throwing  in  the  meal,  which  nobody  else 
did. 

L.  But  what  did  she  want  to  ask  ? 

Sibyl.  About  the  mulberry  trees  and  the  serpents; 
we  are  all  stopped  by  that.  Won't  you  tell  us  what  it 
means  ? 

L.  Now,  Sibyl,  I  am  sure  you,  who  never  explained 
jourself,  should  be  the  last  to  expect  others  to  do  so. 
1  hate  explaining  myself. 

Sibyl.  And  yet  how  often  you  complain  of  other 
people  for  not  saying  what  they  meant.  Plow  I  have 
heard  you  growl  over  the  three  stone  steps  to  purga- 
tory :  for  instance  ! 

L.  Yes;  because  Dante's  meaning  is  worth  getting 
at  ;  but  mine  matters  nothing ;  at  least,  if  ever  I  think 
it  is  of  any  consequence,  I  speak  it  as  clearly  as  may 
ibe.     But  you  may  make  anything  you  like  of  the  ser' 


IRotee.  245 

pent  forests.  I  could  have  helped  you  to  find  out  what 
they  were,  by  giving  a  little  more  detail,  but  it  would 
have  been  tiresome. 

Sibyl.  It  is  much  more  tiresome  not  to  find  out. 
Tell  us,  please,  as  Isabel  says,  because  we  feel  so 
stupid. 

L.  There  is  no  stupidity ;  you  could  not  possibly  do 
more  than  guess  at  anything  so  vague.  But  I  think, 
you,  Sibyl,  at  least,  m.ight  have  recollected  what  first 
•dyed  the  mulberry .-^ 

Sibyl.  So  I  did;  but  that  helped  little  ;  I  thought  of 
Dante's  forest  of  suicides,  too,  but  you  would  not  simply 
have  borrowed  that  ? 

L.  No.  If  I  had  had  strength  to  use  it,  I  should 
have  stolen  it,  to  beat  into  another  shape  ;  not  borrowed 
it.  But  that  idea  of  souls  in  trees  is  as  old  as  the 
world ;  or  at  least  as  the  world  of  man.  And  I  did 
mean  that  there  were  souls  in  those  dark  branches ; — 
the  souls  of  all  those  who  had  perished  in  misery 
through  the  pursuit  of  riches,  and  that  the  river  was 
of  their  blood,  gathering  gradually,  and  flowing  out  of 
the  valley.  Then  I  meant  the  serpents  for  the  souls  of 
those  who  had  lived  carelessly  and  wantonly  in  their 
riches ;  and  who  had  all  their  sins  forgiven  by  the 
world,  because  they  are  rich  :  and  therefore  they  have 
seven  crimson-crested  heads,  for  the  seven  mortal  sins; 
of  which  they  are  proud  :  and  these,  and  the  memory 
and  report  of  them,  are  the  chief  causes  of  temptation 
to  others,  as  showing  the  pleasantness  and  absolving 
■nower  of  riches  ;  so  that  thus  they  are  singing  serpents. 
Vnd  the  worms  are  the  souls  of'  the  common  money- 
fetters  and  trafiickers,  who  do  nothing  but  eat  and 
pin  :  and  who  gain  habitually  by  the  distress  or  fool- 
shness  of  others  (as  you  see  the  butchers  have  been 
gaining  out  of  the  panic  at  the  cattle  plague,  among 
he  poor), — so  they  are  made  to  eat  the  dark  leaves, 
md  spin,  and  perish. 

Sibyl.  And  the  souls  of  the  great,  cruel,  rich  people 
;vho  oppress  the  poor,  and  lend  money  to  government 
:o  make  unjust  war,  where  are  they? 
L.  They  change  into  the  ice,  I  believe,  and  are  knit 


246  flotes* 

with  the  gold;  and  make  the  grave-dust  of  the  valley;, 
I  believe  so,  at  least,  for  no  one  ever  sees  those  souls 
anywhere. 

(SmYl.  ceases  questioning.) 

Isabel  {who  has  crept  up  to  her  side  without  any  one 
seeing).  Oh,  Sibyl,  please  ask  him  about  the  fire- 
flies ! 

L.  What,  you  there,  mousie  !  No;  I  won't  tell 
either  Sibyl  or  you  about  the  fireflies ;  nor  a  word  more 
about  anything  else.  You  ought  to  be  little  fireflies 
yourselves,  and  find  your  way  in  twilight  by  your  own 
wits. 

Isabel.  But  you  said  they  burned,  you  know  t 

L.  Yes  ;  and  you  may  be  fireflies  that  way  too,  some 
of  you,  before  long,  though  I  did  not  mean  that. 
Away  with  you,  children.  You  have  thought  enough 
for  to-day. 


NOTE  TO  SECOND  EDITION. 

Sentence  out  of  letter  from  May  (who  is  staying  with 
Isabel  just  now  at  Cassel),  dated  15th  June,  1877  • — 

"  I  am  reading  the  Ethics  with  a  nice  Irish  girl  wha 
is  staying  here,  and  she's  just  as  puzzled  as  I've  always 
been  about  the  fireflies,  and  we  both  want  to  know  sa 
much. — Please  be  a  very  nice  old  Lecturer,  and  tell  us^ 
won't  you  ?  " 

Well,  May,  you  never  were  a  vain  girl ;  so  could 
scarcely  guess  that  I  meant  them  for  the  light,  unpur- 
sued  vanities,  which  yet  blind  us,  confused  among  the 
stars.  One  evening,  as  I  came  late  into  Siena,  the  fire- 
flies were  flying  high  on  a  stormy  sirocco  wind, — the 
stars  themselves  no  brighter,  and  all  their  host  seem" 
ing,  at  moments,  to  fade  as  the  insects  faded.  «y. 


Tj  DIVERSITY 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 

Renewed  books  are  subjea  to  immediate  recall. 


-2?Jir 


Mm9 


^C'D  LLj 


m  2  Z  1961 


m- 


2> 


X  i  t^ 


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